The Rembrandt Files
by lenfaz
Summary: Modern Art AU. Killian Jones is a highly respected museum curator that focuses mainly on XIX century art. Emma Swan is a rising contemporary artist fiercely protective of her work. When Killian gets assigned to curate Emma's first solo exhibition, things don't necessarily start well but soon they will discover there is much to learn in art. And love.
1. Meet the Curator

Chapter 1: Meet the Curator

 _Confidence is a preference for the habitual voyeur  
_ **Parklife, Blur**

"Bloody Hell!" Killian sighed in annoyance as he ran his hand through his hair, pacing back and forth in his office. "I really don't have time for this!"

"It's your job, you know?" Tink offered from the couch she was perched on, her blonde hair tied to a bun, as she slowly cleaned the paint from her nails. "You are the museum _head curator_ after all…"

"And you are the head restorer… don't you have a painting to go salvage or something? Leave me to commiserate in silence and peace?" He retorted through clenched teeth, his hand balling into a fist.

"Please, you love it when you have me as an audience to complain about whatever they have you do that you don't feel it's an appropriate fit for your intellect." She combined her honeyed voice with a slight tilt of her head and an amused grin.

He grinned back at her, enjoying their usual banter. They had bantered for years: sometimes it was cynical, sometimes there was contempt, but the underlying tone of caring for one another was always there.

"I don't curate modern art, Tink. I am not interested in doing it." He said, voice surly, his eyes going to hers.

"And I know there is a reason for it, Killian." She expressed apprehensively. "But she is the rising star of the moment. They just secured her for her first exhibition. Of course they want _you_ to curate it. You are their golden boy."

"There is a reason why I liked to curate 19th century art, Tink." His voice was flat as he looked at the white wall behind her, focusing on the way the sunlight cast a streak of bright in it. "The artists are _dead_."

"Killian! That is somber and macabre, even for you." She admonished him, her eyes widening at the harsh tone of his words.

"I don't want to deal with a snob and hipster newcomer artist who is into the latest trends and probably has an opinion for everything and anything. I don't have the time to nurture artist's egos. Or listen to their opinions on how to do _my job_."

"It's _their_ art. _Their_ exhibition."

" _My name_ on the curator tag. My responsibility if it backfires and critics hate it." He ran his hand through his hair.

"Have you at least seen her work?" Tink replied, annoyance getting into her. "Sometimes you are too full of yourself, Killian Jones."

Killian paced back to his desk, his eyes wandering over the art prints laying there. He picked up one and looked at it more in detail. "They are good… I'm not saying she's bad. But…" He hesitated, his eyes squinting a little, "There is something missing. I can't put my finger on it, but there seems to be something caged in here… something that is waiting to be unleashed."

He looked up to find Tink grinning amused at him. "What? You were the one that told me to do _my job_." He said defensively as he placed the print back onto the surface of this desk. His eyes caught sight of the photo frame sitting there and he picked it up.

"Have you called him?" He asked her.

Tink shifted uncomfortable in her seat. "There's nothing to talk about, Killian."

"He had no choice, Tink." Killian said defensively. "You have to know that."

"Killian… stay out of it." Tink pleaded, her eyes almost filling with tears, before she shook her head and looked defiantly at him. "Besides, we were talking about your insufferable ass, not your brother's." She scolded.

Killian took a deep breath, looking at the prints on his desk again. He felt trapped, caged. He felt the need to escape this office, these prints that were screaming at him so loudly he could not yet make out the meaning. He needed to unleash, to calm down his own inner demons before even starting to untangle the essence behind these prints.

He cracked his neck from side to side as he grabbed his satchel and pulled the strap over his head, "I'm suffocating here, I'm out." He announced briefly as he headed to the door.

"And where are you going?!" Tink asked baffled.

"You know _exactly_ where I am going." Killian smirked at her before turning around and waving his hand. "Call Liam, Tink. He misses you." He finished before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.


	2. Meet the Artist

Thank you for your follows, reviews and favorites!

Chapter 2: Meet the Artist 

_Do you feel like a chain-store  
Practically floored  
One of many zeros  
Kicked around bored_  
 **Coffee and TV, Blur**

" _No way_!" Emma said defiantly, her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched in determination, only to be met by her agent's raised eyebrow and unamused smile.

"I have a child at home, Miss Swan. These tactics do not have an effect on me." Regina retorted sternly, narrowing her eyes before continuing. "Now, as I was saying before, the fact that the museum is assigning Killian Jones to curate your first exhibition is very important. It's a statement on how they perceive you."

"And _how_ do they perceive me?" Emma asked huffing, her arms crossing at her chest, holding her determined stance.

"As someone worthy of the best." Regina smiled smugly, an air of contempt surrounding her.

Emma rolled her eyes, "I don't need a curator. I can put this exhibition together myself." She defended, her voice carrying passionately throughout her studio.

"Emma, it's their job. They prepare for this. I'm sure he'll be wonderful." Mary Margaret offered and Emma squinted her eyes at her. Sometimes her sister-in-law's undying optimism was tough on Emma.

Her life hadn't been very optimistic to begin with, including several wrong choices that landed her in jail at a young age. When she got out of jail, she was assigned a _peer counselor_ , a new groundbreaking program to match young teenagers with people almost their same age, thinking it might be easier to talk to them. That was when Emma met college freshman David Nolan, who'd listened to her story for approximately fifteen minutes before he was calling his mother. And that was how Emma Swan found herself living in David's old bedroom, with Ruth nagging her to finish her high school degree and encouraging her to find a job. It was in between exams and waitressing that Emma found her passion in life. _Art_. And for the first time in her life, she was encouraged and supported.

Ten years later, here she was. Ready to have her first solo exhibition at a major museum. Ready to show the world everything she had to say. No one was going to interfere with that. Especially not a freaking _museum curator_.

"Excellent job!?" She threw her arms in frustration as she paced in her studio. "Most of them just put some pieces together and paint a wall in a color. _Anyone can do that_!" She sighed, running her hand to her face, her voice carrying a hint of fright and self-apprehension. "I don't want a stuck up traditionalist ordering my stuff around. I _know_ my vision; I know where I want to go with this."

" _Emma_." Regina had had enough of this nonsense. "Killian Jones is one of the main names today in the curator area. The Board just stole him out of the nose of a _very important_ British museum and he moved in here with the head restorer he works with. He never curates modern art so the fact that they want him to do your exhibition is _huge_." Regina raised her hand to prevent Emma from talking. " _And it's not open to discussion_. He _will_ curate it."

Emma sighed frustrated one more time, her eyes scanning her studio. It was her big break. She knew it. She would just have to find a way to let this guy know who was in charge in the end.

" _Fine_." She agreed, lips in a tight line.


	3. First Impressions

Chapter 3: First Impressions

 _Yes, they're stereotypes, there must be more to life  
All your life you are dreaming and then you stop dreaming  
From time to time you know you should be going on another bender  
_ **Stereotypes, Blur**

He heard the knock on his door and quickly replied "Come in!" as his gaze was still focusing on the prints on his desk. He heard the door opening and lifted his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was her blonde hair and incredibly beautiful green eyes. The sunlight coming from his office window (something he had insisted on, as he _needed_ natural light to actually feel the spirit of the pieces) was casting a golden aura around her freckled face and for a second, all he could do was stare at her, mesmerized. He'd seen beauty in the world. He'd sat in that secluded room at the National Gallery in London admiring _The Virgin of the Rocks_ for hours. He'd stood at the hall of the Louvre in Paris, his eyes fixated on _The Winged Victory of Samothrace._ Yet, at this moment, he couldn't recall ever seeing anything so compelling in his life.

Her voice broke him out of his reverie, "Hi. I'm Emma Swan." She said hesitantly.

He shook his head slightly to ground himself, before striding to her, "Killian Jones. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan." He offered her his hand and a polite smile.

Emma took Killian's hand, trying desperately to cling to her thoughts prior to entering his office. She'd imagined this meeting over and over the day before, as she planned what she would say and how she would present herself. But she'd never expected the young man with dark disheveled hair and stormy blue eyes. A perfect, _classical_ profile was part of his features: straight nose, a strong jawline perceived even through his stubble. His face seemed to belong in a marble sculpture, not in an office. He was standing by his desk, left hand in his pocket, looking right through her. She wasn't sure what he was seeing, but it was clearly not her. Not by the way his eyes were staring in astonishment and awe. He seemed to snap out of it by the time he reached to shake her hand, so she smiled slowly before pulling her hand away and nervously tucking her hair behind her ear, her eyes nervously shifting to the floor. She lifted them up again, scanning him. Black fitted suit pants, white pristine shirt, and black suit jacket. Perfect. No color, no disarray, _no spirit_.

 _Other than those stormy blue eyes._

Killian tilted his head as he stood there taking a full look of Emma Swan while her eyes were on the floor. Black studded combat boots, faded ripped jeans, spiked belt, black faded shirt and leather jacket. He smiled sardonically to himself. _Oh yes_ , once upon a time, he would have been all over that attire. _His type_. Definitely.

He met her eyes and saw her smiling with contempt at him. He could feel his eyebrow rising on its own accord. He had to suppress the sudden urge of smirking smugly at her and swagger in her personal space. Her defiant stance brought back many memories. _Painful memories_.

But he was a professional, so he took a step back and motioned to the chairs by his desk. "Would you like to have a seat?"

She walked past him and he fought the urge to inhale deeply in the chance of catching the scent of her perfume.

He slowly walked to the other side of his desk and picked one of the prints of her work. "I've been getting familiar with your work, Miss Swan." He started but she cut him off.

"Emma. You can call me Emma." She offered.

He smiled at her. "Emma it is. Like I was saying, I've been getting familiar with your pieces and I think that, considering it's your first solo exhibition, we could do a self-named exhibition, _Emma Swan_ , and show pieces from your different collections, give the audience and critics a taste of the entire range of your work."

" _How original_." She muttered, crossing her arms on her chest and looking to the side, between offended and bored.

"Pardon, love?" He asked confused, tilting his head.

She looked directly at him, fire in her stare and a repressed fierceness in her voice, "The title is my name, and you just show all my pieces without logical sense or order" She almost but spit the words out. "Sounds like the easy way out."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I thought narrowing down to one topic might not be the best idea for a first exhibition. It might influence unfavorably the critics' view of your potential." He finished, running his hand over the prints on his desk, not meeting her eyes.

"Or it could be a successful way to present myself as a name to be considered in a certain area." She countered, still staring at him.

"And chain you to a style or a topic that might suffocate you in the end, because it will be all they expect to see from you. Until they eventually tire of it and accuse you of always doing the same." He retorted, meeting her eyes with a determined stare. "Sometimes sticking to the traditional way of doing things is the best bet. Make it simple, enjoyable. Make it work with the overall audience and buy yourself the liberty of choosing another route later."

Emma chuckled disappointedly before speaking condescendingly, "You're allegedly the best thing that can happen to my exhibition and your bright, groundbreaking idea is _playing it safe_?" She shook her head in disbelief.

His right hand fisted over his desk, "There is nothing wrong with playing it _safe_ sometimes." He spoke coarsely.

She stood up, facing him belligerently, "That's probably how you played it at Art School, right? Before deciding that taking a risk and failing in art was too much of a threat for you and moving to curate? You know, _played it safe_?"

Killian's jaw clenched at her words, averting his gaze to the side, focusing his eyes on a spot on the wall and bringing himself to calm down. She could see his chest rise and fall with his breathing before he turned his gaze at her. The fire and sadness in his eyes were a contrast with the cold, almost ruthless tone of his voice when he spoke, "You are right, lass. It was all about playing it safe." He said as he slowly removed his left hand from the pocket of his pants and lifted his arm. _Except there was no hand_. Emma gasped when realization hit her, her eyes moving rapidly from his left arm to his eyes. The fire and the sadness were still there as he looked at her directly, speaking void of emotion, "Those who can't do, curate."

Her hand moved towards him as she tried to find words but he moved away from her and strode rapidly towards the door, "I think we are done for today, Miss Swan. I'll show you the way out." He said formally as he opened the door.

Emma nodded, her eyes meeting his one more time before she lowered her head and left his office.

Killian slowly closed the door before he let out the heavy breath he'd been holding. His right hand darted to his left wrist, slowly massaging his stump, trying to fight off the ghost pain that was coming to him. He slowly walked towards his window and he stood there, facing the view as his hand rested on his stump.

Emma left the museum in a hurry, guilt and shame invading her as she walked the city streets. She needed to calm down and center herself so she walked around the areas were most graffiti and street art could be found. There was something about the spray paint, the stencils, the tags, the old school aesthetic that fueled her own creativity. Today, all she could see was the ones with rage, passion, suffocation, the feel of being caged. She could feel it all in the paint lines of the pieces in front of her. She searched for some of the tags but there were only indescribable symbols that she couldn't make out.

She sighed deeply as she strode back to her studio, her mind going back to that office room where she had left Killian.


	4. Second Impressions

Chapter 4: Second Impressions

 _I'm a professional cynic but my heart's not in it  
I'm paying the price of living life at the limit  
Caught up in the centuries anxiety_  
 **Country House, Blur**

Emma heard the knock on the door and she took a deep breath before heading to answer it. She had been dreading this moment ever since his secretary had called to ask what time would be convenient for Killian Jones to look around her studio and choose some pieces for the exhibition.

It had been a couple of days since she'd left his office and while she really, _truly_ , wanted to apologize; she had no clue how to actually go about it. She couldn't tell Regina because she knew she'd be scolded by her agent. And the thought of David and Mary Margaret's disappointed faces was too much for her to bear. So she did what she was best at, she immersed herself in her art and let her emotions flow free in the movement of the burin against the copper plates. She loved to engrave, it was still her preferred form of etching, the sound of scraping, the smell of the ink, the gentle pressure of the old press against the paper.

He was standing there when she opened the door. He smiled politely, but his stormy eyes remained distant. He was in a black suit and a light blue shirt, pristine as the day she met him. Her eyes darted to his left arm, noticing how he hid his stump in the pocket of his pants. The sound of throat clearing brought her eyes back to his and she could feel the slight blush that was tinting her cheeks.

"Good afternoon, Miss Swan." He nodded politely at her, his voice formal and detached.

She tried to smile as she motioned him to enter her studio, "It's Emma." She said as she watched him take a couple of hesitant steps into her art space, his eyes looking around before turning back and focusing on her.

"I think I'd rather stick with Miss Swan, if you don't mind."

"Mr. Jones…" She started, taking a hesitant step towards him. "Killian, please, if you'd allow me…"

He tilted his head at her, his eyes squinting. She took a deep breath before mustering the courage she needed. "I owe you an apology about my behavior the other day. I – I'm sorry for what I said."

"You're sorry about your comments about the lack of my own art production because I have a missing hand?" He was trying to sound cold and detached but she could see the way his jaw clenched and he tilted his head slightly to other side, avoiding her eyes.

"I didn't know… I wasn't aware…" She started but he cut her off again.

" _But_ … if I had two hands, you'd still think the same about me, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know." She replied earnestly. "Perhaps I would."

He sighed, his hand scratching the back of his head as he seemed to be pondering something. When he looked at her, there was sadness in his eyes. "That is what I thought. Now, if you don't mind, it's quite a personal and sensitive topic and I'd rather not talk about it."

She nodded as she stepped away from him. "Can I offer you something to drink?" She asked politely.

"I'm fine, thanks." He replied as his eyes scanned around her studio. She stood there, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She couldn't shake the uneasiness as he paced around, looking at her work. She'd had many people coming to see her work: agents, critics, family, friends; and she'd never felt like this before. She felt naked, hanging onto his every movement to see if she could guess what he was thinking. She sighed, averting her eyes for a moment. She shouldn't care what he thought of her work. It meant nothing, his opinion should mean nothing. _But she cared_.

He walked around, silently contemplating and never getting too close to anything. The print reproductions he had in his office had not done her talent justice. He could see it in each one of the original numbered prints in here. The detail in the landscapes was astounding. There were sea side views, composed mainly with easy lines that flowed in unison, the space and opening between them giving a sense of calm. The city portrays were rich in details, capturing the heaviness and overcrowding feeling of urban life, each element crafted with such passion that he could see the depth on the ink mirroring the fiddles on the original copper plates. There were no self-portraits, and considering her clear classical influences, he wondered about the lack of them. There were several series around human life, and he knew he would need hours to study those more in detail. He stood frozen for a second when he reached the far end, the two presses had caught his attention. He approached slowly and his hand moved to softly caress one of them. He turned around to look at her whimsically.

"Is this a replica? The wood is too new for it to be an original."

She walked towards him, squeezing herself between him and the press to point at the second press further away.

"I've had that one for over 10 years." She smiled proudly as she faced him. "It's the first press I've used for my prints. I bought it second hand from a printing place, and David and I spend a lot of time restoring it." She looked at him, "It's not much, but it was my first press." She turned around, her back on his chest as her hand caressed the press, next to his hand. "This one, I had it done, built as an exact replica." She sighed, "I'd love to get an actual 19th century press, I just can't afford it."

His hand fidgeted next to hers, his fingers almost brushing hers as he removed his hand, slowly, feeling the wood.

"Most of them are sitting in museums, to be admired and preserved." He offered.

"To be filled with dust and unused, to wither away without serving their original purpose." She countered softly, a hint of sadness in her voice.

"Which is…" He whispered, slowly moving away from her.

She turned around to face him, " _To Create_."

He looked at her, admiring the passion and fire in her eyes. He'd pondered a lot before coming in here, about his options (if he had any). And there she was. She hadn't apologized, not really. She'd apologized because of his hand situation, but he knew she stood by her convictions. He had always detested the idea of working with modern artists. _But she was different_. She wanted this, probably more than anything; but she wasn't willing to compromise for it. He could respect that, he could work with that. He knew it was probably going to be hell; the back and forth between him and her. But if they could make it, if they could pull through it…. the end result could be brilliant, mind-blowing. The type of effect that only comes once in a lifetime. He took a deep breath and averted his eyes, his hand scratching the back of his neck before looking at her again.

"Look… I think we started on the wrong foot." He offered, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I usually don't curate modern art, it's not my area of interest. It really doesn't compel me." He shrugged. "And I was trying to think of a way to present something that would get your name circulating without chaining you to a style or a theme."

She tried to speak but he held his hand to stop her, brushing slightly against her arm.

" _If_ you want something different, I am willing to try." His eyes bore into her earnestly, trying to convey what this would entail. "But it will involve us spending a lot of time working together, and me spending a lot of time here going over your work. And flooding you with questions and ideas to see if I am really catching the meaning, the essence of your work." He sighed, a small smirk on his lips as he raised his eyebrows. "I am probably going to propose a lot of things that you won't like, but that is the way I work, by trial and error. You'll get frustrated with me, I'll get frustrated with you. _Constantly_." She rolled her eyes and smiled at him. He cleared his throat before continuing. "But if you are willing to try to go through this process with me, I think we can achieve something magnificent. _Inspiring_."

His voice was full of passion as he turned around and looked at her art, and her breath caught in her throat at the intensity of his eyes, the fire in his words. "It's sitting somewhere in here… _I just have to find it_." He whispered vehemently, almost to himself.

He shifted his head, his eyes focusing on her with an almost mischievous smile. "What do you say, love? Take a leap of faith?" He extended his hand at her.

She closed the space between them as her hand reached to grab his, and she could feel the callouses on his fingers. "Let's do it." She whispered, her green eyes boring into his. "Can I ask you a question?" Her voice was hesitant and he recoiled immediately, letting go of her hand and taking a step back.

"If this is about my hand, I'd rather not." He said shortly.

She lifted her hand in a soothing motion "No, I – what do you think of my work?" She asked, her head tilting as she looked at him.

He could see her earnest curiosity. She was truly interested in his opinion. He thought briefly about it: he could take the easy way out and compliment her, but Emma Swan did not seem the type to want things to be superficial or sugarcoated. She had that fire in her eyes, that restless stare of someone that had been lied to one too many times and didn't appreciate it. She stroke as someone that would prefer brutal honesty rather than a sweetened half-truth. She was tough, she could take it. She could take the blow to her ego and use it to fuel her; not to destroy her. She could use it to rebuild herself from it.

He scanned her studio before posing his eyes on her. "You know your craft, and very well if I might say so." He motioned to the presses. "You haven't taken the easy way out with digital etching. You've actually devoted time to learning classical engraving. That requires patience, practice, commitment." He chucked lightly, "Even stubbornness to pursue a technique that most consider obsolete, dried up, useless, a waste of time." His eyes bored into hers, a hint of admiration in them. "But you still see it as something magical, full of hope, of possibilities. All of that, it shows in your work. You are definitely good."

He paused, and averted his gaze, taking a deep breath. "But a lot of artists are good. Only a few are _great_." He stared at her with a confident smile. "You have the potential to be spectacular… you're just not there yet. I am not sure why." He sighed. "But that is for you to find out, Swan."

She stood there looking at him, lips slightly parted and an awestruck look on her face. She quickly recovered and smiled at him. He smiled back shyly, almost ashamed of his words.

"Alright, I leave you to it. Thank you for your time, and for letting me into your studio." He said before heading to the door.

"Thank you for your honest appreciation of my work." She called to him.

He turned back and smiled softly at her as he opened the door. "Good night, Emma."

He exited into the night and took a long walk around the city, his ghost pain an eternal companion, the images in his head bringing back painful memories of a time and a place that no longer was, and it would never be again. And then her art flooded his mind, and he tried to mentally pick it apart and pull it back together, searching for that hidden meaning that he knew was there. He had to learn to read her, to read her art like an open book. Only then he could tell her story to the world.


	5. Compositions

Author's not (rant): To the guest reviewer that posted about Killian missing hand in the fic being almost pointless _because in the show he lost it due to the dark one being evil and searching for revenge and a magic bean, not because of some accident or because he was born with it._

I am actually _**damn proud**_ of being able to write that in an AU. I actually reversed the roles that I had originally thought for this fic in order to write that trait in Killian (Emma was going to be the curator originally). I have worked really hard to fit that into this story in a way that is believable because for me, **_that is an important trait of Killian Jones_**. And I treasure the fics that actually make an effort to address that. This is Killian Jones in another life, and in this life, he's missing a hand. Please don't do me any favors by considering giving this story another despite the missing hand. I'd much rather have you read something that fits your liking.

/end rant.

I hope the rest likes the chapter

Chapter 5: Compositions

 _And we all say  
Don't want to be alone  
We wear the same clothes  
Because we feel the same  
And kiss with dry lips  
When we say goodnight  
End of the century... it's nothing special  
_ **End of the century, Blur**

Killian was right. It hadn't been easy. Not at first, at least. They kept dancing around each other, too polite to ever be able to accomplish much, too closed off to get anything good out of it. It had been frustrating, navigating through those empty hours and having nothing valuable to show for it. He'd spent more time than he considered healthy pacing around back and forth in his office, trying to come up with something, _anything_ , that could get them in the right direction. And he'd failed. Over and over. It was nerve-wracking; and Tink had seen him several times storming out of his office and into the night, cursing under his breath about suffocating.

It was one of those days that he and Emma were going over some prints in his office, standing next to each other by his desk, shoulder to shoulder, while he toyed with a couple of ideas for the composition.

She looked at it, her hand moving towards one of the prints. He could see from the expression on her face that she wasn't convinced, but she was trying to be polite about it.

"Don't hold up, love. It's terrible." He said and she looked at him, a comforting smile on her face.

"It's not terrible… it's just… _bland_." She offered and he chuckled, running his hand through her hair.

"I swear I am good at this, lass. It seems it's easier to do it with 19th century art." He joked around, trying to change his own sour mood.

"Why do you think that is?" She asked.

"Well, for starters, the artists are all dead. Makes the brainstorming process a lot easier. And _quicker_." He offered.

"No one to talk back at you and tell you it sucks?" She joked, her hand moving to pick up one of her prints and examining it.

"Well, certainly, no one as _distracting_ as you…" He whispered, his eyebrow raising and his voice dropping an octave, in almost a husky tone.

She looked at him puzzled for a second before rolling her eyes at him. "Really? You are going with that excuse?"

"Lass, has no one ever told you you're bloody beautiful?" He asked genuinely puzzled, his eyes squinting as he turned around to rest his side against the desk, focusing on her.

She blushed slightly, a soft red tint invading her cheeks and his heart skipped a beat. And then she looked at him and he lost his thoughts as he was too busy drowning in the green eyes that were gazing up at him curiously.

The sound of the door opening interrupted their moment and Killian turned around just in time to meet an enraged Tink barging into her office, paint all over her face, a murderous look in her green eyes and a bouquet of daisies in her hand.

"Really, Killian?" She spat at him, clutching the flowers in her hand.

"Tink, I can explain…" He started but she cut him off by throwing the flowers to his face, and she turned around to smile at Emma. "Hi, I'm Tink. Head restorer. Nice to meet you."

"Emma Swan." Emma offered as her eyes moved from Tink to Killian curiously.

Tink looked at Killian one more time, her finger pointing at him. " _Stay away_!" She screamed before stomping out of his office and shutting the door forcefully behind her.

Killian grabbed the flowers sighing before he threw them in the trash can. "Sorry about that." He said.

"Well, that explains why you come in a package deal with a head restorer." Emma said looking amused. He turned around to face her, tilting his head.

"You think we are involved?" He asked gesturing towards the door with a little chuckle.

"She's throwing flowers at you. That is pretty self-explanatory" Emma shrugged.

"But that is only one piece of the story," Killian said and his eyes posed again on the prints over his desk, an idea popping into his mind. "It's like an exhibition." He said as he grabbed one of the prints and strode to the other side of the office, placing it over the couch.

He pointed at the piece: it was a print of a teenage figure surrounded by shadows. "You have one piece, and you think you know the whole story. She threw flowers at him, so they must be involved and they got into a fight." He quickly went back to the file cabinets behind his deck, where he kept more of her prints and he searched for something. He seemed to have found it, because he smiled sadly, picking a print and heading back and placing it on the other side of the couch. It was the print of a baby in a basinet, alone at the steps of a house, " _But_ what if he had bought the flowers on behalf of _his brother_ , who's the one that has been dating Tink for almost a decade. They were actually _engaged_." He sighed, before moving back to the desk, his hand brushing her arm as he leaned to pick up a final print, a small little girl sitting alone in a bench. He spoke as he walked and placed the print in the middle of the other two, "And she broke the engagement because he was supposed to come here with her but his mission got extended for two more years and now he's still in danger and away from her."

He turned around and looked at her… "A small baby left on its own, a lonely little girl, a troubled teenager. Separately, they are just moments… Together, they are the story of a life."

But she wasn't looking at him, her eyes were frozen on the prints on the couch, the three of them next to each other making such a powerful tryptic, that a tear escaped her eyes before she could even realize it. Killian was by her side in an instant, his hand reaching gently to dry the tear from her cheek.

"I'm sorry." He whispered softly. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She took a deep breath before taking a step back, finding his proximity too comfortable and that thought scared her, "It's personal."

He smiled sadly at her, "Art usually is. _Good art_ comes from the heart, from having something you are desperate to show, to scream at the world. Even if it's not something you thought you wanted to share to begin with…" He sighed.

She looked into his eyes, and he could see the fear in them. She bit her lower lip. "I have to go…" She said and he nodded, stepping away from her as she picked her bag.

She turned around as she reached the door, looking at the tryptic one more time before her eyes bore into his, "But we should keep that set. _It's good_." She sighed. "I'll see you at my studio?"

"Aye." He whispered as he watched her leave.

/-/

A few days later, Emma swung on her chair, taking a break from the drawings and drafts she'd been working for the past hour, feeling frustrated with her sudden lack of inspiration. Or perhaps it was her lack of concentration, she had to admit to herself as her eyes focused on Killian, who was currently half lying on the floor, looking as if he belonged there. He was wearing faded jeans, black sneakers and a plaid shirt; his hair was spiking in every direction imaginable, headphones in his ears. He was holding a pencil between his teeth as his hand moved the small prints reproductions around on the floor, lost in his own world. He finally had a breakthrough on the concept for the exhibition. The tryptic he put together in his office had become the beacon for the exhibition and with that idea in his mind, he had started to see her work under a different light. Suddenly, he began to combine different city landscapes with some of her human portraits, being able to catch the different senses in her work: fear, loneliness, frustration, despair, lost hope, solitude.

Emma tilted her head as she looked at him, his head moving slowly to the beat of what he was listening to as he put together a couple of prints, taking some notes on its edges. He seemed to notice her eyes on him, because he turned around and removed his headphones while looking at her. The sunlight coming from the window cast his eyes in a deep cobalt blue.

"What?" He asked intrigued.

She bit her lower lip, contemplating him and her answer. "That is not how I pictured a curator working." She admitted, sighing to herself.

He chuckled as he scratched behind his ear with the pencil. "I am a little unorthodox, it seems. How is your sketching coming up?"

Emma sighed, her lips almost forming a pout. "Nonexistent. I cannot seem to find anything compelling anymore these days…"

"Or perhaps I have the same effect on you as you have on me and I am too _distracting_?" He teased her and she rolled her eyes at him. He slowly sat down and looked at her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugged. "Not sure if it will help… I just feel caged, to be honest. _Constrained_." She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "Can we talk about something else instead? You are a curator, what is your favorite museum?"

He pondered his answer for a moment. "Orsay, in Paris. Most people prefer The Louvre and it's wonderful; but there is something about that old train station and its natural light that just gets to me."

"And the 19th century art."

He smiled. "Aye, and there is that. What about you?" He tilted his head and waited eagerly for her answer.

"Rembrandt House, in Amsterdam." She replied instantly.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded in pleasant surprise. "Makes sense. The best paintings of Rembrandt can be found at the Rijks," he started, his eyes boring into hers, "but the major collection of drawings and etchings are at the Rembrandt House."

"And his studio." She beamed at him.

"He was a great collector, did you know that? It's basically what drove him to bankruptcy." He said, his eyes coming back to her prints as his hand fidgeted with his music player.

"What were you listening to?" She asked curious.

"Die Toten Hosen" He replied without looking at her and missed her shocked face.

" _Really_?!"

He lifted his head, "Does that surprise you?"

She nodded. "You don't strike as the type."

He shook his head and chuckled sarcastically. "You really thought I was a stuck up prep boy, didn't you?"

"Aren't you?" She asked defiantly.

"You don't know half of it, Swan." He said before sighing and extending his hand. "Come here, love. I want to ask you something about one of your pieces."

She walked towards him and sat by his side. He leaned over to point a print at her. "Tell me about this one." He asked softly.

Emma looked at the etching of the two wrinkled hands, the only detail the small jeweled ring on a finger. Her hand caressed it slowly before she spoke softly. "They are Ruth's hands." She said.

"Who's Ruth?" He asked.

"David's mother." Emma said softly. "Before I met them, nothing had been good in my life." She pointed to the different prints he had organized in a long string of loneliness and despair, "A long list of foster homes and group houses, thieving days, empty promises of the guy that left me to take the blame for his robbery." She paused for a second as her eyes looked briefly at his before moving back to the print. "I met David when I got out of jail and he took one look at me before calling his mother. She took me in, gave me Dave's old bedroom and forced me to finish school. When I mentioned that I wanted to be an artist, she encouraged me and supported me. She moved her car out so I could set up my first studio on her garage. She told me to never give up."

"Sounds like one hell of a woman." Killian said in a soft voice.

"She was." Emma said, a tear running down her face. "Her hands were rough from hard work but they never faltered and they were always warm. Until her very last day." More tears came to her face. "She died from heart failure a couple of years ago."

Killian looked at the print one more time, seeing it through the eyes of her story. It was beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful. And heartbreaking.

His hand moved to put it aside. "We shouldn't use it."

She turned around to look at him and he smiled. "It's too personal, Emma. Some things are meant only for you." He whispered.

His eyes bored into hers and he could see her in front of him. She was raw, completely raw in her emotions, her walls down, her entire life in front of him. It had to be hell for her, how he knew so much of her pain, her suffering.

It was _unbalanced_.

He sighed as he averted his eyes and his hand moved to massage his stump. He sensed her eyes moving directly to his left arm but he kept his gaze focused on the wall in front of him.

"I met Milah when I was eighteen, at art school. She was into performing arts. You should have seen her on stage, she was wonderful. All eyes were drawn to her. We fell in love, we shared every bit of our lives with each other for two years." He took a deep breath, the memories coming back to him, "One night, we were walking back home after one of her performances. I remember being there, on the sidewalk, holding her hand and thinking that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. And the next minute there's a screeching sound and it all went black."

Emma shifted at his side, her hand moving next to him, almost reaching for his leg. His eyes focused on her prints, "I woke up on the hospital to the news that she was gone. She died immediately when the car hit us."

He felt Emma's hand on his leg, squeezing in comfort. "The car crushed my left hand beyond repair as well." He tilted his head, shifting to the side, his hand moving on top of hers, their fingers intertwining.

"After that, I focused on art history and nothing else. Tink was the only person I kept talking to from my old group. Liam came back to help for a while before going into his next mission. During that time, he and Tink became more than friends. I think it was just a fling in the beginning, but at some point they truly fell for each other. They'd been together ever since. At least until a few months ago."

"And you?" Emma asked hesitantly. "Have you ever…?"

He looked at her and she could now understand the storm in his blue eyes. "No. There were a few women here and there… but no one has ever really meant anything. Not in the way she meant everything…" He finished sighing.

"I'm sorry." She said and he nodded before taking a deep breath and letting go of her hand. "I should go…" He whispered and she agreed, helping him gather his papers into his satchel.

He smiled sadly at her. "I have to be at the office for a few days, finishing up some paperwork. So I'll see you by the end of the week?"

"Yeah, I'll see if I can push myself to create a few more pieces for the exhibition."

His eyes bore into hers with longing. "See you soon, Emma." He whispered before leaving.


	6. Sketches

Chapter 6: Sketches

 _It really, really, really could happen  
Yes, it really, really, really could happen  
When the days they seem to fall through you, well just let them go  
_ **The Universal, Blur**

Later that day, Emma found herself walking the streets, trying to find inspiration among the street art and graffiti. There were some new ones, with the same indecipherable tags as before. She stood in front of one of them, her eyes carefully following the clean line of the spray paint, mentally tracing the hand movement that made the sketch. It was an intricate design, yet she could see how it had been done in one fluid movement. It was breathtaking. _Inspiring_. She tried to recreate the movement with her own hand and there was something in the flow that inspired her. Her mind quickly started imagining that same fluid movement against the copper plates. And then it hit her: what if she engraved like a graffiti? What if she could recreate the fluidity of those lines and tags in bigger copper plates and fill them with different colors to create just one print? Then she could also spray paint the copper plate… They would be one of a kind, they would be unique… perhaps not ephemeral, but never meant to be copied again. She quickly took some pictures of the graffiti with her phone before mentally making a list of everything she needed.

She worked for days. The plates were bigger than the size she was used to, so she put them on the floor and moved around them, working the lines with her burin and dry point. Her hand moved fluidly as she closed her eyes and followed her instincts, letting herself get lost in the moment.

Her old press squeaked under the pressure, but when she took the print and let it dry, a satisfied smile was showing in her face. It was the etching of a graffiti. _And she loved it_.

Spray painting the copper plates had been messy, but incredibly fun. She felt tempted to keep on going, filling half of the walls in her studio with graffiti; but she was exhausted and mentally and emotionally drained after the pieces she'd put together. She decided to call it a day and collapsed on her bed, too tired to do anything else.

/-/

When she answered the door the next day to let Killian in, he was on the phone. He nodded at her before going back to his conversation.

"Liam, I've tried. But she's refusing to talk to _me_ about it." Killian said, entering Emma's studio. He listened for a few seconds before he scoffed. "Listen, I _know_ you had no other choice. Stop badgering me, I am not the one you need to convince, brother. She misses you. She's scared for you. And I am trying to actually do my job in here while going back and forth between the two of you. I cannot deal with this anymore. _Get your bloody arse here somehow and talk to your fiancée yourself!_ " He finished angrily before taking a deep breath. "Liam, I have to go… I'll call you soon. Aye, take care."

He disconnected the call and look at Emma sheepishly, "Apologies, love. These two are going to be the end of me."

She smiled as she waved her hand dismissively. Killian noticed her satisfied smirk and the glint in her eyes. She looked radiant, almost glowing. He tilted his head. "I take it that you finally found the inspiration you were missing?"

She bit her lip nervously and nodded before she grabbed his hand, "Come look!" She said as she walked him towards her new prints and the copper plates, carefully aligned against the wall. She pointed them at him, a smile on her face. "What do you think?"

He stood frozen, awestruck, a few steps away. Graffiti. There were graffiti, but there were _etched_. The lines flew effortlessly, the colors filling in the space in the paper in a way that was familiar, yet new at the same time. He bent over, his hand moving almost to touch the pieces, but not actually touching them. His hand followed the movement of the lines on the prints before moving to study the copper plates. The clash of colors on the lines against the bronze plates was striking. He stayed there for a minute, bent over, his eyes roaming over the pieces. They were breathtaking.

He lifted his eyes and looked at her amazed as he stood up. "How did you…?" He half asked, too stunned for words, as he pointed at them.

"I found this great street art that was my source of inspiration. Here, look!" She motioned him to the table where he could see a couple of photographs of graffiti from the streets in the city. His hand traced the lines in one of them while she continued talking.

"See the lines … it's almost flawless, like one continued movement back and forth." Her finger moved next to his, tracing the lines. "And it got me thinking about lines, and movement, and the idea of capturing this fleeting art in way that was still unique, but it would persist in time."

She turned around and walked towards her prints. "It was like something inside of me was set free and I just went with it. What do you think?" She tilted hear head, her eyes searching his and he walked towards her, still baffled.

He cleared his throat as he shook his head to try to regain his senses. "Swan, they are _striking_. This – this is _fantastic_."

"You think so?" She asked incredulous.

"Emma…" He looked at her, his stormy eyes boring into hers, passion and awe in his eyes. His gaze was so intense that it took her breath away. "This is _it_. This is what makes you _great_. This is just the missing piece to make everything, all of this, _spectacular_. This is where the story ends, this is where the years of engraving and etching and pouring your life into your work ends." His voice was strained, almost broken by emotion as he took a step closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers. "And this is where a new story begins. This is when the _real artist_ emerges and your style comes through. And it's unique, breathtaking, beautiful." His hand cupped her cheek and her breath caught in her throat as he leaned in closer, his lips almost touching hers, " _Much like you_." He whispered against her lips and then he was kissing her, softly but surely, his lips pressing into hers. She gasped at the warm feeling of his lips, before her own lips started to move against his. His hand caressed her cheek softly before he moved it to tangle in her hair and his left arm rested at her hip, slowly pulling her closer to him. She kissed him back eagerly, her hands caressing the nape of his neck and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, getting lost in her mouth.

He broke the kiss, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resting his forehead against hers. When he opened them, he could see the fear and confusion in her eyes. He could feel her hesitation. She got caught up in the moment and it was clear for him that she did not know how to get out of it.

 _And it broke his heart._

He pulled away from her abruptly, averting his eyes and speaking rapidly, "My apologies, that was unprofessional of me. I – I should go."

"Killian, wait…" She said, trying to reach for him. "It's not like – I mean…"

"No need to say anything, Swan. It was a mistake." He risked looking at her and he saw a small pang of rejection before relief flooded her eyes. "It won't happen again. Don't fret, love. But I do think it's best if I leave now… I – I'll call you." He said before quickly reaching the door and exiting her studio.


	7. Graffiti

_A/N: I want to thank all of you for your comments, follows and favorites. This story has a special place in my heart and the fact that you are responding to it so warmly really fills my heart with joy!_

Chapter 7: Graffiti  
 _  
Other people wouldn't like to hear you  
If you said that these are the best days of our lives  
Other people turn around and laugh at you  
If you said that these are the best days of our lives  
Other people break into a cold sweat  
If you said that these are the best days of their lives  
And other people turn around and laugh at you  
If you said that these are the best days of our lives, of our lives  
_ **Best Days, Blur**

Emma couldn't sleep that night. She lay awake, tossing and turning on her bed, but every time she closed her eyes, Killian's image would come to her. His eyes, full of passion and admiration as he leaned in to kiss her. The feeling of his lips against hers, the soft press of his left forearm on her hip as he pulled her to him, the texture of his fingers tangling in her hair, the sound of his ragged breathing when he broke the kiss. The pain in his stormy blue eyes when he read her hesitation.

She sighed as she got out of bed, putting on a pair of jeans, a shirt, a black sweater and her boots. She was never going to find sleep until she freed her head from the thoughts that were drowning her. She grabbed her leather jacket and headed out, deep into the ghosts of the night, seeking to clear herself by walking into the depths of the city.

She hadn't meant to kiss him. At least, she hadn't realized she wanted to kiss him until his hand caressed her cheek and his lips pressed against hers softly and she let herself go, drowning herself into the moment. Until he pulled back and in the second that his forehead rested against hers, she froze.

His kiss, that kiss, it wasn't just physical gratification. It had stirred up something inside of her, it had woken dormant feelings she'd kept inside, guarded, for more than a decade.

And it scared her. She had never let herself feel like that, not after she'd been betrayed by the only one who had claimed to love her. And it had been good, focusing on her art, on making it on her own, living within her walls while her art was the only sharer of her deep feelings. While art was her only life companion.

She hadn't realized how much Killian had barged into her days, how much his presence had weaved into her daily routine. How his words, actions and little quirks had become a part of her space, her studio, her _life_.

How his view of her work had given it another breath of life, how he had unveiled a new meaning into the pieces she'd put together from within her walls. How much he'd come to know about her, reading her like an open book, while she'd come to know about him by putting together the fragmented pieces he'd shared with her in return. She'd found comfort in sitting by his side, her hand fidgeting next to his as he worked, the silence speaking louder than words.

 _But was it enough?_

He was still a traditional freak, fixed on his own concept of art. He knew so much about art, but it came from books, from that theoretical knowledge he'd spent years building. There was fire in him, that much she knew, but he always seemed to be in tight control of it, so perfectly measured into the appropriate moment and time.

She knew about walls, she had them too. But not when it came to art, it was the one place where she'd given it all... But Killian, he'd walled in his fire into a perfect composure and never truly let it out, every step carefully planned and conducted into this pristine professional that never lost control.

 _Until he kissed her._

She took a deep breath as she kept walking with no clear direction, just letting herself go into her thoughts.

Suddenly something caught her attention in one of the side streets, across a parking lot.

There was a dark figure painting a graffiti, which wouldn't be odd, considering the hour. But she recognized the flow of the lines from where she was standing and she didn't need to see the tag to know it was the same one that had done the graffiti that had been her inspiration. It was a tall figure, probably a guy, and she could see the faded jeans and heavy combat boots, a black leather jacket and what seemed to be a hoodie underneath.

She quickly but subtly approached him, her heart beating fast as she imagined what she would say to the artist whose paintings had inspired her to find her own style. She seemed to have made a noise, because he'd stopped painting, lowering his hand that still held the spray can as he slowly turned around.

And she stopped frozen, rooted to the spot as her eyes roamed over the dark disheveled hair and those stormy blue eyes she'd now recognize everywhere.

"Killian?" She asked in a strained voice, shock clearly visible in her eyes.


	8. Strokes

_I am so happy that you liked the plot twist and that most of you didn't see it coming... it makes me proud of how much my incredible beta (Jess) and I worked on the level of detail on the graffitti and the tags before the big reveal._

 _(And I hope you like this chapter!)_

Chapter 8: Strokes

 _So give me Coffee and TV  
History  
I've seen so much I'm going blind  
And I'm braindead virtually  
Sociability  
It's hard enough for me  
Take me away from this big bad world  
And agree to marry me  
So we can start all over again  
_ **Coffee and TV, Blur**

 _"Killian?" She asked in a strained voice, shock clearly visible in her eyes._

"Emma?" He asked confused. "What are you doing here?"

"What are _you_ doing here? What is this?" She asked, stumbling over her words, "Was – was it you? All along?" There was sadness in her voice.

He tried to speak, but the sound of a police siren distracted him. He quickly reached for the satchel that lay on the floor and put the spray can in it, before crossing the strap over his head. He looked at her.

"We need to leave Emma." He said as the siren grew louder.

"What?" She asked confused.

" _Now, Swan._ " He said firmly as he grabbed her hand and walked hastily away from the painted wall.

They walked in silence as Emma tried to gather her thoughts around what was happening. After a few blocks, Killian pulled them into a building's entrance, letting go of her hand to grab a set of keys from his back pocket and opening the door. He motioned for her to go in and he held the door open. He silently moved towards the stairs and they climbed one floor before finally reaching his apartment door. He opened the door and walked in.

"Come in…" He said as he removed the satchel from his shoulder and put it on the couch nearby. She stepped in slowly, her eyes scanning his place. There was a small kitchen at her right and then the living room was an open area, with little furniture other than a couch, a coffee table and a bookcase that covered an entire wall of the room, filled with books. Prints and papers were over the coffee table.

Emma tried to calm her breath as her eyes went to him. As she glimpsed on the street, he was wearing combat boots, faded ripped jeans, and a massive black belt. A black _The Clash_ shirt hid underneath a grey hoodie and the leather jacket he had already removed. She scoffed to herself. He had averted his eyes, his hand fidgeting with the hem of this hoodie.

"Killian…" She urged him, her eyes blasting with contained irritation.

He sighed as he turned back to her, his hand running through his hair, "I assume you want an explanation." He said softly.

"I think I'm entitled to one." Her words were slightly hostile. "You've lied to me all this time?"

He sighed, feeling the hurt in her voice, breaking his heart.

"I didn't lie, Swan." He noticed how she quirked an eyebrow at him, and he paced around until he rested his frame against the back of the couch. "I did quit art school." He started, his voice shaking lightly. "When I woke up on the hospital, I had to adapt to a life with one hand. I had to learn almost everything again. You can try to sympathize, but you have no idea how hard that is." He looked at her, pain in his eyes and her own eyes filled with tears as she tried to imagine his pain. He hesitated for a second, before pushing himself forward, "I had to figure out different ways to do everything. From dressing in the morning, to cooking, cleaning, anything. For years, _I had to constantly remind myself_ before doing something that I had no left hand to use. Ten years later, it still takes me a long time to even get dressed and there are so many things I need help with." His right hand massaged his stump instinctively. "And the pain, the ghost pain still haunts me at night." He stopped his words, his eyes fixated on the floor.

Emma walked towards him, her hand moving softly to caress his left arm. He lifted his head to look at her, his blue eyes boring into hers as he continued his story, "I quit art school because learning how to do that with one hand on top of everything else I had to learn at the same time was too much." He averted his gaze, almost ashamed of his words. "I just couldn't take it." He acknowledged.

"Killian…" She whispered softly, her hand moving from his arm to hold his hand. "I'm sorry."

He looked at her hand on his, and he rotated his palm so his fingers caressed hers. "You know for which activities it poses little difference having one hand or two?" He moved his hand on top of hers, his fingers softly caressing her knuckles as his eyes bore into hers one more time, "Reading, taking notes, flipping through pages… So, I moved to art history because I could still remain close to the thing I love the most."

He sighed, averting his gaze and she could feel his hand twitching on top of hers, as if he wanted to do something else, like scratching behind his ear and running it through his hair; but he kept it on top of hers, his fingers squeezing hers lightly. His eyes were lost on the room, looking at a framed painting he had on the wall. "One day, I was frustrated with the therapy and it had taken me forever to put on pair of bloody pants, and as I was pacing around in my flat, I saw an old spray can. And I just took it, got out and painted a graffiti after years." His hand twitched on top of hers, his voice lost in his own memories "and it was as if time had not gone by and my missing hand didn't matter."

Emma burrowed her forehead in confusion, "After years?"

He tilted his head to look at her, a soft smile on his face, "I've done graffiti in London since I was 16, Swan. I've been doing it for as long as I can remember… I can do it in my sleep." He finally removed his hand from hers and he ran it through his hair.

"It wasn't just the missing hand." He confessed. "After Milah died, I lost the will to paint, to draw, to do art…"

"But you do art." Emma stated firmly.

Killian scoffed, "That is _graffiti_ , that is not art." He motioned with his hand, "That is vandalism, _anarchy_. It's rebelling against the masses. That is me lashing it all out on the wall, letting my frustrations go and just focusing on the movement of the spray can while the music blasts in my ears and I am in my own world." He looked at her, self-loathing in his eyes. "That is not art, love. That is _escape_."

She shook her head, " _You are wrong_. That is art." Her hand reached for his cheek, forcing him to look at her, "It _inspires_ , it compels. Do you know how many times I've walked those streets and looked at those lines? How many times they have inspired _me_?" Her voice shook as she saw the disbelief in his eyes, "They portray so many feelings, feelings that I later translated to my own etching: loss, pain, rage, frustration…" Her hand caressed his cheek softly and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes briefly and breathing deeply, before opening them and looking at her from beneath his eyelashes. Her voice caught on her throat, "And the movement, Killian. That incredible line movement that changed me… How can you say that's not art?" She whispered astonished, her eyes boring into this.

She moved her other hand to him, cradling his face, "And all this time, it was you. It was all you." She said softly.

"Swan…" His eyes bored into hers, fire consuming him.

She brushed her lips to his briefly. " _You_ …" She whispered frantically, kissing him again, crushing her lips to his. He groaned and kissed her back, a soft whisper escaping his lips between their kisses, " _Emma_."

She anchored him to her, deepening the kiss as her hands ran through his hair and she sank into him, letting the heat consume her. His hand tangled in her hair, his left arm on her hips pulling her closer to him and she moaned at the contact of their bodies.

He broke the kiss, his mouth trailing down her neck and she gasped at the fire his mouth was igniting on her skin. Her hands reached to unzip her hoodie and pull it off him frantically. He stopped his kisses as he helped her remove her jacket and sweater, before crashing his lips against hers, his hand cupping her ass and pulling her against him.

She shivered, caressing his shoulders and moving down his chest until she reached the hem of his shirt and broke the kiss, panting desperately as she yanked it off. She took a second to catch her breathing, before her hands pressed on his chest and she was kissing him again. He groaned at the contact of her lips on his neck, his head falling back and she smirked against his skin at the sounds she was eliciting from him. He ground his hips to hers and it was her turn to moan as she felt his hand on the skin at her waistline. She pulled back briefly, her eyes never leaving his face as she reached to remove her shirt. He looked wrecked, his hair spiking in all directions, his eyes dark with lust and awe at the sight of her. She smirked at him and it seemed to pull him out of his daze, as he slowly grabbed one belt loop and pulled her slowly to him, his lips meeting hers in a slow kiss that burned her to the very core. Her hands unfastened his belt and undid the button of his jeans and he growled. She playfully bit his lower lip as her eyes moved down. The sight of the tattoo on his left hipbone caught her attention and she broke the kiss and pulled away to take a better look at it. And then she gasped surprised. It was the tattoo of a graffiti tag. From a somewhat renowned graffiti artist in the British underground scene, who had stopped painting almost a decade before. Now that she was seeing the tag more carefully, it was an intricate design of a _K_ and a _J_.

 _Fuck_.

He was perplexed for a second when her lips left his, but he followed her gaze to find her looking at his tattoo. The crucible of emotions that crossed her face alerted him that she was aware of what the tattoo stood for and was putting the pieces together. She shook her head in disbelief and when her eyes met his, he was looking at her with a sheepish smile.

"Just who are you?!" She asked shaking her head.

He gave her a smug smile, "I said before you didn't know the half of it, Swan." He bit his lower lip before extending his hand towards her. "Come here," He whispered and she took his hand and let him pull her into his arms. His eyes bored into hers, still darkened by lust, but his voice was calmer than before as he spoke. "Are you sure about this?" He asked hesitantly and she looked at him for a long moment before leaning in and kissing him. "Yes." She whispered against his lips and it was all he needed to hear as he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom.

Killian Jones was a man that knew about beauty. He'd made a life out of appreciating the beauty in almost every art form, from the classical lines of a Greek sculpture to the crafted strokes of an impressionist painting. Yet, that night, all he could think of was that he'd never experienced anything as enthralling in his life.

The way her golden curls contrasted against the white fabric of his sheets. Her soft gasps as he trailed kisses on her jaw. The feeling of her skin against his fingertips as he softly removed the rest of her clothes. The lines of her body as he traced every curve with his hand. The soft feeling of her fingers as she raked her hands through his hair, following down into his shoulder blades. The way she arched beneath him, the way she smelled, she tasted. The way she felt wrapped around him. The way she made _him_ feel as she shivered and collapsed under his touch. The broken sound of his voice as he fell apart in her arms.

Later that night, as he watched her sleep in his bed, the moonlight casting a game of light and shadow on her features, he felt his hand twitching with a desperate need. A need he hadn't felt in a decade. He slowly got off the bed, careful not to wake her; and he searched around for a sketch pad (he recalled having one lying around) and a pencil. And then he sat there, on his bedroom, loosely sketching a few lines on the paper. He memorized her lines and then closed his eyes to recall them vividly. He looked at the paper again, softly smiling. It would take him forever, but he was willing to do it. He had time after all.

He closed the sketchbook, put it on his bedside table and quickly joined her in his bed, pulling her back to his chest and nuzzling his nose against her neck, before drifting into a peaceful slumber.


	9. Carvings

A/N: I got the following review after last chapter: _I am enjoying the story and no account. Confused about whether Killian left or right handed. I paint and sketch as a hobby. Losing your non dominant hand would not interfere. If he was left handed he might get back to painting but not sketching. Drawing needs a much finer touch, end result would not be good no matter how much time. He could paint bigger pieces, more abstract/impressionistic with looser movements so whole arm gets involved and in mediums where paint can be poured and flows._

First, I want to thank you for your comment. This is the embodiment of that a constructive review is: you are not stating a personal preference, but you are actually pointing out something that the author can use to make the fic better. So, I am very thankful for you comment.

As for your question: Killian didn't lose his dominant hand. His dominant hand was the right one, so he still retains the "ability" to have that finer touch that is required for drawing or detailed painting style. The idea of quitting art school was more related to the process and techniques that the actual loss of talent itself. Even if not dominant, the left hand would have played a part in most of the techniques or processes required to do art (much like it plays a part in any other actions in life like cooking, getting dressed, etc). Examples would be holding a canvas, mixing paint, holding the sketchbook, etc. For any of those there would have been a workaround that would allow him to continue with art; but as he had to learn to do all the other stuff in his life with just one hand, Killian felt overwhelmed at that moment and didn't want to go through the frustration that learning process was sure to entail. In addition, his grieving also played a part and he'd lost the will to even try to do art. His mind just wasn't there.

It is that, and not the lack of actual talent capacity, what drove him to quit art school and focus on curating. And it is why he can pick up a sketchpad ten years later and try to draw again. It would take him a long time because he's rusty and he has to learn to maneuver the sketchpad with his stump, but he has not lost the ability to draw. I hope this helps explain it!

* * *

Chapter 9: Carvings

 _This is a low  
But it won't hurt you  
When you are alone it will be there with you  
Finding ways to stay solo  
_ **This is a Low, Blur**

Emma woke up to the sunlight on her face and the muffled sounds of the coffee maker in the kitchen. She quickly got up and searched for something to wear, only to find her clothes folded at the edge of the bed. She smiled as she got dressed and made a quick stop in the bathroom before heading into the kitchen.

Killian turned around from the kitchen aisle and smiled sheepishly at her. "Good morning," He said. "There's coffee and toast. I know it's not much…" He trailed off.

"It's fine." She replied nervously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He nodded as he placed a mug filled with coffee next to her and went back to retrieve one for himself.

"What are your plans for today?" She asked, trying to push off the awkwardness she was starting to feel. She hadn't done this in a long time. She'd had one night stands, but she would usually either leave right after or sneak out unnoticed in the middle of the night. But staying the night, sleeping wrapped in someone else's arms; she hadn't had done that in over a decade. And it wasn't just that. It was _him_. She'd see him again. _Soon_. There was no avoiding it, not when the exhibition was a few days away.

He walked back towards her, smiling tenderly as he reached her side and tilted his head. "I should head to the office, I have several things to put together in time for your exhibition." He spoke softly, biting his lower lip as if he was studying her carefully.

She shifted around nervously, her eyes scanning his living room and admiring the natural light.

"You have great natural light in here." She commented, "This can be turned into a great art space. If you move the bookshelves a little, you can definitely fit a little studio there."

He looked confused for a second, his eyes squinting, "Are you planning to work on my living room?"

"No, I meant for _you_." She said.

His features showed even more confusion at her words, "For me? Why would I want an art space, love?"

She looked at him hopefully, "So you can start working on your art again." She paced around, her hands pointing at the space, "It doesn't have to be big at the beginning. You can start small, some sketches, charcoal. Slowly get back into it."

When she turned around, she met his cold and sad stare. He clenched his jaw a few times, before finally speaking in a soft voice filled with disappointment.

"Swan, I have no intention of going back to doing art."

Her heart sank on her chest as she slowly moved towards him. "But I thought, you know, with your street art…" He glared at her firmly and she stopped in mid-sentence, looking at him sheepishly.

"Emma, I'm a _curator_."

She smiled softly at him, slowly reaching for his arm, "Yes, I understand. I know that it was too much then, but you are in a different place now. I'll help you," She offered, her hand squeezing his arm, "I –"

"I don't need your help!" He snapped at her, yanking his arm from her hand as he walked a few steps away from her. He took a deep breath, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, before he faced her again. "Emma, I don't think you understand. I like what I do. I like _curating_ classical art and finding new meaning in existing pieces. It's like looking at them and falling in love and awe with them for the first time. _Each time_." His voice shook slightly with emotion. "And now, I've realized that I might like curating modern art too. There's something compelling about helping artists find themselves, finding their essence and showing it to the world… like it happened with _you_." He finished in a whisper.

Emma stood there, trying to make sense of his words, but all she could see was a scared boy that refused to lose control. And all it did was frustrate her to the point that she lifted her walls back up and locked herself in her own world.

"You didn't help me find _myself_ by curating, Killian." She sneered at him. "You did it with your art. You are not letting others see _who you really_ are. You are scared! You are so scared of losing control over things you are letting it paralyze you." She finished sadly.

He sensed the pity in her voice and it fueled his own anger. He tilted his head, looking daringly at her, his blue eyes almost burning her, "Let's speak freely, shall we? Last night, you went to bed with a graffiti artist you'd admired for years, a romp between the sheets with a fantasy you've had for a long time. But this morning, you woke up with _me_ , the museum curator that quit art school." There was a contained bile in his voice as he almost spit the words out. "And you regret it, don't you? You are never going to accept who I am. You don't believe there is value in curating, you've barely tolerated me at most. I became interesting the moment I could be something other than a curator. But I _love_ what I do, Swan. I truly love it, _it's who I am_. It's who I'll always be…" He sighed deeply, running his hand through his hair, averting his eyes, "And it's clear to me that it's not the type of person you'd ever be interested in."

She fought the tears that were coming to her eyes, her mouth a tight thin line as she looked at him one last time. He didn't lift his eyes from the floor.

"I should go." She said and she didn't wait for a reply as she walked towards the door.

"Perhaps you should."

She heard his voice speaking softly as she was almost outside. "Goodbye, Swan." He whispered softly and he heard the door closing a second later.

He stood there, in the middle of his kitchen, letting the somber feelings drown him in.


	10. Charcoal

Chapter 10: Charcoal

 _Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am home again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am whole again  
_ **Lovesong, The Cure**

Emma sat on the floor in the middle of her studio, looking at the vacant space where her latest pieces used to be. She'd sent them that morning to the museum, not daring to write up a note to Killian. There was nothing to say. Soon it would all be over, the exhibition would be ready and she'd avoid him as much as possible during the opening. And after that she'd never have to see him again.

The bang of the door pulled Emma out of the somber thoughts she'd been immersed for the past few days. She turned around to see Mary Margaret coming in, carrying a paper bag, a couple of Styrofoam cups and a resolved stare.

"You're going to tell me everything." Mary Margaret said firmly as a greeting, dropping herself on the floor next to her.

Emma made an attempt to protest but Mary Margaret cut her off by handing her cup, "Don't even try that on me, Emma Swan. _I know you_. Here's some hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon and half a dozen bear claws to make it better for you. But you _will_ tell me about it."

Emma sighed as she sipped the chocolate, letting its warmth envelope her. "It's Killian." She finally confessed.

Mary Margaret lifted her eyebrows as she sipped her coffee and Emma shook her head in disbelief. "Was it that obvious?" She asked hesitantly.

"Just a little…" Mary Margaret replied. "But you forget that I have a sixth sense for true love." She smirked and Emma scoffed at her.

"That wasn't love."

"And what was it then?" Mary Margaret asked.

"A mistake." Emma said before grabbing one of the bear claws and telling Mary Margaret the story.

"Oh, Emma." Mary Margaret said as she squeezed Emma's hand in a comforting gesture, "I'm so sorry."

"I just can't believe he wouldn't even consider it." Emma ran her hand through her hair, trying to avoid dealing with the sadness that invading her.

"Emma, he's been a curator for years, it's clear is something he likes to do." Mary Margaret offered. "And he's good at it, isn't he?"

"He is." Emma admitted. _Damn good at it_.

Mary Margaret cleared her throat before speaking her next words carefully, "Did you imagine how it must have felt for him? It was almost as if you were only seeing something he hasn't been in a long time… And what he has been, what he has shared with you, what he's proud of, it was like it didn't matter to you."

"It's – it's not like that." Emma stuttered, "It does matter, but I just don't get why he is so afraid of even trying..." She sighed. "He's _good_ , Mary Margaret."

"What if he tries and he can't?" Mary Margaret replied honestly. "Would you still want him?"

"It wasn't about that…"

"It probably was for him. Look at it from his side: you regretted kissing him when he was just a curator. And then only show interest in him as long as he was willing to be an artist again."

Emma's eyes filled with tears. "But that is the thing, isn't it?" Mary Margaret pressed on, "When you couldn't sleep that night and went for a walk, it wasn't a graffiti artist you were thinking about, it wasn't an artist the one that had torn down your walls. It was Killian, just by being who he is everyday."

Emma sighed, "I've hurt him, haven't I? He trusted me and I just…" She looked at her friend, "I don't know if I can give myself to someone again. What happens when it doesn't work out?"

"You don't know that it won't." Mary Margaret said with her eternal hope,

"It never did…" Emma scoffed.

"Emma, ever since I've known you, you haven't really tried. You haven't let anyone in, _really_ in." Mary Margaret said, "Anyone but _him_. And the funny part is, you didn't even realized it. It just happened… you didn't plan it, you didn't even think about it… Doesn't that tell you something?"

Emma's drifted to her jean pockets, where she still kept the pictures from his graffiti, the ones she'd been constantly looking at for the past few days. Her fingers carefully caressed the lines on the paintings before she looked up at Mary Margaret's knowing smile.

"You'll know what to do." Her friend reassured her.

/-/

"This has got to stop," Tink said as she barged into his office the following week, a few days before the exhibition. He'd been looking at the model design of the rooms, running the order over and over in his mind.

He hadn't seen her. Not ever since she'd walked out of his apartment that morning. She'd sent her latest pieces with a courier, not even a note with them. And he had drowned himself in his job, as he always did; pushing himself to obsessive levels until each piece was carefully placed where it was meant to be, the silent strings of his thinking tying them together for the world to see.

"Killian… look at me," Tink pleaded and he lifted his eyes towards her. She smiled at him, "You have to pull yourself out of this…"

"I'm fine, Tink, I don't know what you are talking about." He deflected, his hand running through his hair as he went back to study the design. "I always get like this the days before an opening, you know that." He tilted his head, a charming smile in his features trying to deceit her on how he really felt. "Nothing to worry about, love."

She shook his head before she looked directly at him, "Speaking of the opening, I need an extra ticket." She said carelessly, as if it was something ordinary.

Killian's face fell, "An extra ticket?"

"I'm bringing a date." She beamed shyly at him and Killian's heart sank.

"Tink, you can't do this." He pleaded. "I know things are bad right now, but you can't give up on Liam, not after everything you've been through."

She tilted her head, her green eyes shining with mischief. "Are you telling me I cannot bring my fiancé to the opening?"

Killian smiled softly as the meaning of her words sank in and he gave her an accusatory glare. She grinned at him, "I love your idiot brother, regardless who he might be or where the wanker chooses to be."

Killian sighed, running his hand through his hair before his eyes flickered back to Emma's art. Tink noticed the way his hand fidgeted next to her prints.

"You should talk to her, Killian." She said softly.

He shook his head, "It was a mistake, Tink. I was nothing - it meant nothing." He said unconvincingly.

Tink pulled a folded paper from her pocket, unfolded it and put in on the desk, in front of his eyes. It was his drawing of Emma. The one he started that night and that he'd continued each wretched night afterwards, almost against his own will. He'd tried to leave it behind, to leave it unfinished; but each night he'd tossed and turned awake in his bed until he'd got off and continued drawing it.

He lifted his head, his eyes searching Tink's accusatorily as he arched an eyebrow at her. Tink didn't even flinch as she shrugged her shoulders, "Meddling goes both ways, Killian."

She circled the desk to stand beside him, her hand softly pointing the drawing. "Who was the last woman you drew in your bed?"

Killian's jaw clenched, his eyes closing as the memories flooded in his mind, the ghost pain in his left arm almost unbearable for a second. "You know who…" He whispered.

Tink nodded sadly, "She means something, Killian. You are just scared to admit it." Her hand reached for his face, forcing him to look at her, "You've fractured yourself so much, keeping the parts away from each other so you wouldn't have to deal with being whole again, with actually _fully_ moving on from Milah. You've kept your grief for her in your graffiti, in the absence of even trying to be an artist again; and another part of you moved on as a curator with fleeting one night stands that never meant anything. And you never had to deal with it, because you never let those two worlds touch. Now your worlds are collapsing… and it's because of _Emma_."

Killian averted his gaze, his eyes focusing on his drawing, his hand reaching to massage his stump obsessively. Tink's hands reached for his, stopping his obsessive movement, and softly squeezing his hand and stump.

"She makes you want to draw again, doesn't she?"

"Draw, paint, etch, anything. _Everything_." He sighed defeated. "I can't even sleep anymore. I keep seeing it, all in my head, all these images and I just…" He looked at Tink, apprehension in his voice. "I don't know if I still have it in me." He confessed.

Tink's fingers traced the lines on his drawing. "Look at those lines. Killian, when was the last time you drew before this?" She asked.

"Ten years…" He admitted, his own fingers tracing the careful lines he'd spent hours working on.

" _Bastard_." Tink scoffed. "Ten years without lifting a pencil and your lines look like _this_? _I hate you_."

Killian chuckled at this. "I guess they are not so bad…" He admitted as he turned around and enveloped Tink in a brotherly hug. "Thank you." He whispered.

"Anytime." She replied.

/-/

It was the day before the opening and Killian was putting together the final touches of the exhibition, his hand travelling to adjust some of the pieces, his hair a disheveled mess, when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"How come there is no picture of the artist in the brochure of the exhibition? I wanted to see how she looked like."

Killian smiled to himself before turning around and facing Liam standing in the middle of the room, smiling mischievously at him.

"I'll guess I'd have to wait until the opening tomorrow night, then." Liam said as he walked the remaining distance and enveloped Killian in a tight hug.

"Welcome, brother." Killian said, his voice strained with emotion.

"Alright," Liam said as he pulled a flask from his satchel. "I was able to smuggle some rum in here… let's have a seat and you'll tell me all about it."

"Didn't Tink already fill you in?" Killian asked arching his eyebrow as he reached for the flask, removing the cork with his teeth and taking a deep gulp.

"I want to hear it from you…" Liam replied, taking a sip as well.

"Aye. But I have to do one final check on the rooms first. Want to join me?" Killian asked.

"Lead the way, little brother."

They sat side by side on one of the benches in the exhibition room, when Killian sighed, finally coming to the end of his tale.

"Even if I'd want to paint again," Killian said, his hand motioning to the walls in the room, "I still love this… this will still be who I am. Being an artist will be just something on the side… it would never be who I really am. Not anymore. Not after all these years curating."

Liam looked at him puzzled, "Why do you keep thinking you have to be one or the other? You were never just one, Killian."

Killian's stare must have mirrored his confusion, because Liam sighed, his tongue darting out of his mouth before he spoke again, "When mum took us to the National Gallery for the first time, you could not have been more than five years old. You were gone the moment we entered, your jaw was on the floor, you walked from one painting to the other, you asked me to read you all the tags, everything." Liam smiled at the memories, "And when you came home, you didn't just draw and paint with your pencils, Killian. You also spent entire afternoons putting your paintings in different order, playing at having a museum. A _museum_ , little brother."

Killian smiled almost in disbelief, trying to recall those memories, "I did?"

"You were never an artist _or_ a curator." Liam stated vehemently, "You were always _both_. _You should be both_." His hand pointed to the prints hanging on the walls, "And this should not be about whether painting again would get you the girl or not, this is about you being who you truly were meant to be, who you've always wanted to be."

Killian looked at his hand, his fingers slowly fidgeting as he contemplated his brother's words. "Both…" He sighed, almost to himself.

"Both." Liam said encouragingly.

/-/

Later, much later that night, Killian stood in that same room. The museum had been closed for hours, but no one had paid attention as he came in, as he usually did. He'd locked the door behind him and took a long walk around the exhibition, silently telling the story in his mind over and over. But those walls, those white walls against her prints, they were suffocating him. They had been suffocating him for weeks and he felt that itch, that irresistible itch. He put on his headphones, the music blasting from them taking him in, drowning him in a sea of images that were coming to his head and he slowly pull a spray can from the satchel he'd left on the floor, shaking it vehemently before he lifted his arm and started painting on one of the walls.


	11. Drawings

Chapter 11: Drawings  
 _  
Everyday he got closer  
He knew in his heart he was over  
I'd love to stay here and be normal  
But it's just so overrated  
_ **Tracy Jacks, Blur**

The piercing sound of her phone ringing startled Emma, waking her from the troubled slumber she'd been battling every night ever since she'd left Killian's apartment.

She grabbed her phone and connected the call, wondering how many times Regina was going to nag her about the opening taking place that evening.

"Yes, Regina, I will dress properly for this evening. I promise there will be no ripped T-shirts with obscure references to 80s punk bands." She said frustratingly.

" _Emma_." Regina's alarmed tone made Emma dart into a sitting position.

"Regina, is everything ok?" She asked, worried.

"I – Something happened with the exhibition." Regina continued. "It's better if you get in here. _Soon_."

She was at the museum less than half an hour later, hesitantly walking into the entrance. A secretary was waiting for her and she was taken directly to the wing where her exhibition would take place. Regina was standing there, her foot stamping the floor nervously and two suited middle aged men accompanied her. She scanned the hallway nervously, but Killian was nowhere in sight. Regina turned around and smiled briefly at Emma.

"Regina, what happened?" Emma asked confused.

"Emma, these gentleman are members of the museum board." Regina pointed out the two men that nodded at her. Emma shook hands with them briefly, before looking back at Regina, who cleared her throat and continued. "There's been a – _problem_ … with the exhibition. It seems someone broke in and _vandalized_ the room."

Emma's eyes widened in surprise and she stood there speechless. From the corner of her eye she could see Tink standing by one of the corners, head deep in conversation with someone but darting her eyes at her.

"We are terribly sorry for this, Miss Swan." One of the men said. "We have no idea how this happened. We will investigate until the latest consequences and we will ensure this act of vandalism is punished."

"What are you talking about? What did they do?" Emma asked, her heart beating slightly faster. "Are my prints _damaged_?!"

"No, we don't think so, but our head restorer is here to conduct a thorough examination. We've also tried to get ahold of Killian, but – but he's not answering his phone." The other man said as they all headed towards the room's entrance. "He was here late last night, he always inspects the exhibitions until the very last minute… but he couldn't – he wouldn't…" The man trailed off and Regina stepped in, gently squeezing Emma's hand.

"You better see it for yourself, Emma." She said.

Emma nodded and took a few hesitant steps and entered the room. Her heart sank at the view, her eyes closing for a brief second, fearing she'd imagined it, before she opened them again. It was still there.

Graffiti. _His graffiti_.

The walls where her prints were hanging had all been spray painted, the words _Lost Girl_ showing in old school aesthetics. It was the name he'd picked for her exhibition. Then there were lines, lines everywhere, color and movement that complemented each one of the etching sets he'd put together for the exhibition. And his signature tag, his _old_ signature tag with the KJ was in one of the corners of the wall.

Her eyes scanned the room, mesmerized at his art on the walls of her exhibition. And then she turned her head to the one wall that was left untouched. The one where her latest pieces, her etched graffiti and copper plates, hung against pristine white.

It was a powerful statement. His final touch to an exhibition that was already perfect in its conception and then he'd come at the last minute and made it mind-blowing. Breathtaking. Inspiring.

 _Much like him._

Her blurred vision alerted her to the tears that had come to her eyes and she tried to catch her breath as she walked around the exhibition room. And then she noticed the small folded paper sitting on one corner of the room, her name written on it.

She slowly crouched to grab it and unfolded it with shaking hands. She gasped in astonishment at the drawing of herself in a bed, the lines perfectly worked on the paper, the perfect composition taking her breath away. It was clear only one person could have done it, because she could recognize those lines anywhere. A small scribbled note was at the bottom of the drawing.

 _It was never supposed to be about me, Swan. It was always about you. I hope you like it. KJ_

Regina's voice startled her. "They say they will cover it. They will run against the clock but it will be done before the opening. They are trying to get ahold of Killian so he can supervise it…"

 _Killian_. She had to find him. Talk to him.

Emma turned around abruptly, " _No_. I – I forbid them to cover it. They have to leave it exactly like this." She turned around the room, "It's _perfect_."

"Emma…" Regina said confused. "What are you talking about? _You want to keep_ _ **this**_ _on the walls_?"

Emma gave her agent an icy glare. "It's _art_."

Regina's eyes widen as realization dawned on her. "You- you know who did it?"

Emma nodded, her eyes betraying her as they darted towards Killian's name next to the exhibition name, under the curator tag. Regina almost choked. " _Really_?" She asked as she turned around, gasping. "Oh dear."

Emma's voice was fierce, "Listen to me, you fight to the nail to keep those graffiti in here without letting them know who made them. They don't call you the _evil queen_ for nothing, Regina. Live up to it."

Regina gave her an unamused smirk before her eyes studied the walls. "He's good." She admitted.

"I know, I've been telling him." Emma sighed, running her hand though her face. "I have to go. You'll take care of this?"

"Oh, _I will_." Regina promised.

As Emma was leaving, Tink reached for her. "Your prints are all intact. Nothing damaged them…" She said carefully, her eyes searching Emma's.

"I know." Emma said. "He would never damage a print. I _know_ that."

Tink cleared her throat. "He cares for you. He – he wouldn't have done this if not."

Emma nodded. "I – I have to see him."


	12. Paintings

_sorry this took so long. Modern life is_ _rubbish_ _hectic_

Chapter 12: Paintings  
 _  
Well you and I  
Collapsed in love  
And it looks like we might have made it  
Yes it looks like we've made it  
To the end  
_ **To the End, Blur**

She knocked on his door fervently, insistently, her entire body fidgeting in anticipation. She had pondered what she would say to him, but she still couldn't figure out the words.

And it wouldn't have mattered if she had figured them, because her mind went blank the moment he answered the door in faded jeans, his hair spiking in all directions and a white t-shirt with paint stains on it. His eyes were hooded and she could almost feel the exhaustion on the way he was standing. But when his eyes finally met hers, she could see much more. She could sense the undercurrent passion that was oozing from him, the quiet sense of frustration but accomplishment at the same time, and it was working like magnet, pulling her to him.

"Emma?" His gravelly voice carried a hint of confusion, and Emma swallowed hard, trying to fight the dryness that had come to her throat.

"Killian…" She started, her own voice coming less sure than she wanted it. "Can I come in?" Her eyes looked at him pleadingly. He tilted his head, his eyes squinting, trying to read her. He was mentally and emotionally drained after pouring himself into the graffiti the evening before and battling a canvas all morning for the first time in a decade. But there was something about the way her green eyes were scanning him, the nervousness of her stance and the obsessive running of her fingers through her hair.

He sighed before giving her just the hint of a smile and opening the door for her. She took a few hesitant steps towards the apartment but turned around to face him the moment she heard the door closing.

They remained there for a few moments, standing, facing in silence as they were seizing one another, trying to find out words that somehow had abandoned the both of them.

Emma took a deep breath before she pointed at the stains in his shirt. "You've been painting…" She whispered softly.

"Aye. I- I've been _trying_." He admitted, his hand moving to scratch behind his ear in that nervous tic she'd come so fond of. His eyes searched hers, and she could see that the storm that was usually present in his eyes had been replaced by a passionate tranquility. "It takes forever… even mixing the paint is proving to be a challenge." He confessed sheepishly.

"Would you – would you show me?" She asked, her voice laced with a sense of reverence and respect.

"It's barely drafted… there isn't much to look at." He deflected, a shy embarrassment covering his features.

"I'd love to see it… if you want to show me. I'd – I'd understand if you don't." She traced her last words, her eyes averting to the floor.

" _Come with me_ …" His whispered reply came to her as a caress and she lifted her gaze to find his eyes boring hopefully into hers, his hand extended towards hers shyly. She took it, the electrical current that passed between them almost impossible to ignore, and she let him lead her towards that part of himself he'd kept hidden for years.

It wasn't much. An improvised, very small art area had been set up, an easel with canvas and a little table with paint and brushes on one side. She held his hand as she slowly approached the canvas, her eyes focusing on the lines drafted there. The lines hinted a landscape: she could make the waves of the sea, a sidewalk, and two small figures walking. Only a few actually strokes had been painted, but she could recognize the small, thin, visible style hidden in them.

His soft voice made her turn around to face him, "I've always loved the impressionists: their strokes, that passion, that overall urge and need to _just_ _paint_. Fast, furious, before the sun left, before the light left, to capture beauty before it was too late and the darkness took it away." His words had been escalating as he started describing the style and she could see it all now. _Passion_. When she first met him, she'd thought he didn't have any. Later on, she'd thought he had locked his fire in a place deep within him, never allowing himself to lose control. But now, the passion was everywhere, coming out of his words and even in the way his fingers were itching and fidgeting in her hand.

Her body moved on its own accord as she reached for him and kissed him, her lips pressing against his in contained emotion. He reciprocated it after a brief second, his lips moving against hers. Suddenly he pulled apart and she could see the conflict in his eyes.

"Emma…" He whispered, his voice almost painful, "I - I care deeply for you. This wasn't, _isn't_ , just a romp in the sheets for me. And I need to be honest with you…" He sighed, disentangling his hand from hers to run it through his hair, before looking at her earnestly, "I am trying this because you were right, I _was_ scared and I _do_ miss it. But I am never going to be just an artist." There was a strong determination in his eyes as he spoke his words, "I can't be just that. I'll always be a curator. I love being a curator… that - that won't change. So take a good look at what I am before you rush into something you'd regret." He finished in a thin voice.

Her hand moved to his face, her fingers softly caressing the scar in his cheek, as she tried to put her thoughts into words, "I loved your graffiti, yes. I was at the museum this morning, they called me and I saw the exhibition…" She trailed off, averting her eyes for a second as the overwhelming emotions of what she saw in that room took over her.

"Swan…" He breathed and her eyes found his one more time.

"I saw myself in that room, Killian, and it wasn't just because of the graffiti. It was because of you, of how you tied it all together. I loved what you did in there, not just as an artist, but as a _curator_."

Her hands cradled his face as she took one more hesitant step towards him, their bodies almost touching, "Killian, when I found you painting that night, I was taking a walk to clear my head, to try to figure out my feelings." She tilted her head, her eyes never leaving his and she felt his hand softly caressing her waist. "What had me walking in the dark that night, it wasn't a graffiti artist. It was the curator that called me beautiful and kissed me on the middle of my studio," She whispered, her lips softly approaching his. "It was _you._ It had always been you."

He closed the thin breach between them, his lips finding hers in a slow burning kiss, his hand and stump pulling her flush against his body and she threw her arms around his neck, her hand tangling on his hair as she drowned in his kiss. She moaned against his lips, as she let his passion wrap around her, his mouth hot against hers, his hand gripping her hip tight against his. She broke the kiss, hastily pulling his shirt off and kissing his chest, her mouth lingering softly against his skin until she reached his nipple and her tongue darted out, slowly licking it. He moaned, reaching for her head and softly pulling her up to meet his lips in a searing kiss. He trailed them backwards towards the bedroom, his lips always touching some part of her skin as he whispered breathlessly, "I can't stop thinking about you, Emma. I want to draw you, paint you, fill the city with graffiti of you." His hand moved to remove her shirt and she helped him, before moving to caress his chest. He pushed her softly to lie on the bed and he quickly joined her, hovering over her, tracing the lines of her breast underneath her bra. "I wish I could sculpt the curves of your body on marble, Swan…"

She reached to kiss him, pulling him flush against her, her hips arching to meet his, feeling the fire and passion consume her. He growled at the contact of their lower bodies, his clothes doing little to hide his need for her.

"You have no idea how much I want you, Emma." He whispered against her lips.

"As much as I want you." She replied, capturing his lips in hers.

"You have me, Swan. I'm yours. All yours, love." He breathed on her skin, his forehead resting on her neck as he tried to regain composure of himself.

But she wouldn't have that, she wanted him, all of him, she wanted to see him lose himself completely in this. Her hands cradled his face as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, " _I want you to lose control_ …"

And he did. He lost himself in her, over and over again, as he thrusted slow and deep, her body meeting his, his hand tracing the lines of her curves as he whispered incoherent words in her ear. She collapsed against his fingers softly caressing her as he kept a steady rhythm inside of her and then she watched him fall apart on top of her, his face contorted in pleasure before he reached out to kiss her passionately.

He slowly moved away from her, his back hitting the mattress and pulling her to him. She snuggled against his chest, her hand tracing circles on his skin as she looked at his sated smiling face. It was then when she noticed the bags under his eyes.

"You look tired…" Her finger traced the scar on his cheek and he sighed at the touch.

"I haven't been sleeping…" He admitted sheepishly.

She looked at him from underneath her eyelashes, her chin resting on his chest, "Me neither. I –I missed you."

He pulled her even closing to him, his arms softly embracing her, "And I missed you… Sleep, love." He whispered, placing a kiss to her hair.

Later in the afternoon, he found himself again facing that canvas, his eyes quickly studying the lines. He felt her embrace him from behind and he turned around to admire how beautiful she looked wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. He leaned is to kiss her, his thumb tracing her chin, his left forearm pushing her to him. She broke the kiss and leaned backwards and he trailed after her.

"We are going to be late. We have an opening to attend." She reminded him.

"You can be fashionably late…" He cocked an eyebrow, capturing her in his arms and swaying them around his living room.

"No. I can't—I'd love to, but we can't …" She replied. "I still have to go home and get ready, I promised Regina I was not going to show up on a 80s punk band t-shirt and _look what I am wearing now_."

"It looks great on you, though." His smile faltered for a second and he looked at her nervously, "Emma, Would it be - would it be ok if I pick you up to take you to the museum?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, smirking, "Are you asking me to be your date to the opening?"

"I guess I am…" He admitted.

"I'd love to. Pick me up at 7. Don't be late." She said before leaning to kiss him.

"I won't."


	13. Exhibitions

A/N: 3 more chapters after this one... 

Chapter 13: Exhibitions  
 _  
And then I'm happy for the rest of the day  
safe in the knowledge there will always be a bit  
Of my heart devoted to it  
_ **Parklife, Blur**

Emma heard the knock on the door and took a final look in the mirror before she went to answer. The sight of Killian standing in front of her took her breath away. Pristine black suit, black shirt with a couple of buttons undone, showing the hint of a t-shirt underneath.

Killian looked at Emma and felt his jaw drop. She was a vision in a tight black dress that accentuated her features, her hair in a tight ponytail, smokey eyes and bright red lips.

"You look stunning, Swan." He said in an astonished whisper.

She tilted her head appreciatively. He was handsome as usual, but he looked different than before. His hair was slightly disheveled and he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. His stance was more poised, he had more swagger in him. It was very slight, but she could see it.

"You look…" She started but he cut her off.

"I know." He said smugly and she rolled her eyes before she noticed the chain he had hanging from the belt.

She smirked at him, "We even dressed to match." She turned around and he could see that the back of her dress had two black stripes cutouts with silver zippers and chains on it.

"Swan," He whispered huskily as his arm wrapped around her stomach and he pulled her back to his chest before he leaned in to press soft kisses at the nape of her neck and moved down to the place more where her neck met her collarbone.

She breathed deeply, her hands closing to his before she gently disentangled herself from his arms and turned around. She gave him a genuine smile, "I really don't want to be late to my first solo exhibition."

He smiled and nodded at her, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss on her knuckles, "Aye, Milady."

/-/

He could feel it the moment they entered the room. The energy buzzing around as the exhibition finally came alive in other people's eyes, her incredible talent shining through for everyone to be amazed by it. _As he had been amazed by her._

He turned around and gave her a bright smile, "Can you feel it?" He said as his hand grabbed hers and laced their fingers. "It's a success, Swan."

"How can you tell so soon?" She asked curiously and he could feel the nervousness on her voice.

"Look at their faces, at how they are standing looking at the pieces, enraptured by your talent." He gave her an adoring look, suppressing the urge to kiss her. Because he wanted to kiss her very much at that moment, but he knew he shouldn't. So he did what he could, bringing their interlaced hands to his lips and placing a soft kiss on her palm. "Come love, it's your night."

Soon they were cornered by a few museum board members. Regina had worked her magic to keep the graffiti in the walls and by now everyone knew it had been Killian's decision as a curator to include them as complement to Emma's work. But they still had questions.

"It was done with my permission." He said confidently, as his hand rested on Emma's back, not caring of the pointed looks they were getting. "Emma had mentioned that this has been an important influence in her art; so I tracked the artist and convinced them to participate." He tilted his head, giving them a flashing smile, "Given the nature of their work, they prefer to remain anonymous, that is why it had to be done with a little… _subterfuge._ "

"How did you find them?" One of the board members asked.

Killian smiled cockily, "I am good at my job. And I can be _quite convincing_." Emma had to bite her inner cheek to stop herself from laughing at his statement. Killian gave her a sideway glance before he continued, "When they heard the importance they've had on Miss Swan's art, they were more than eager to … _perform_."

The innuendo laced tone on the last word and the fact that he lowered his hand on her back almost to the point of indecency had Emma blushing slightly. His fingertips were softly caressing the bare skin on her back between the cutouts of her dress and she could feel her body reacting to his touch. It was alluring, but also comforting at the same time. The members of the board quickly said their goodbyes as they needed to take care of sponsors and benefactors and Killian and Emma were left on their own. They walked around the room and they reached the part of the exhibition where the original tryptic was set up. It was the one he'd put together on his office that day, when he finally had broken a piece of her walls and had started to read her. She looked at it mesmerized, as it was where he had chosen to graffiti _Lost Girl._ His hand was still on her back, and she leaned into his shoulder, placing her hand on his chest.

The sound of a throat clearing brought them out of their little cocoon and Emma smiled as they turned around.

"David! Mary Margaret!" She said happily as she reached to hug them tightly before coming back next to Killian. "Killian, these are David and Mary Margaret." She said smiling.

Killian smiled as he shook David's hand and bowed to Mary Margaret, "It's nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you from Emma."

David noticed how close Killian and Emma were standing next to each other, "We haven't heard much about you, actually." His comment was met with a slap on the shoulder by Mary Margaret and an unamused look by Emma. Killian, on the other hand, was holding his stare peacefully, an eyebrow slightly raised.

"Emma, this looks beautiful!" Mary Margaret said, changing the subject. Emma beamed at her as her eyes scanned the room.

"Thank you," She said, "But Killian gets the credit for putting it all together."

"Nonsense, Swan. This is all about your amazing talent." He replied, his eyes holding her gaze as he gave her a dashing smile.

David observed the soft touches, the smiles, the easiness with which they were holding each other. And he knew it could only mean one thing. He was about to go into overprotective brother mode when he noticed the happiness in Emma's eyes, in the way she looked at Killian. And then he saw the way Killian looked at her adoringly. He sighed on the inside before smiling at them, "You should come for dinner sometime…" He invited politely.

Killian smiled in return, "I'd love to."

"Alright, we should get going, there's a lot more to see and Killian and Emma probably need to talk to a lot of people," Mary Margaret said smiling, "Congratulations, Emma!"

Once they were gone, Emma turned back to look at the walls, admiring Killian's graffiti. She hadn't had the time in the morning, but now she was analyzing the pieces in detail, amazed by his lines.

"I'm glad you liked them." She heard Killian's voice and lifted her eyes to find him shifting nervously, his hand scratching behind his ear. "I – I wasn't sure."

"They are _beautiful_." She replied as she reached for him, her eyes getting lost in his deep cobalt blue ones. He smiled as he bent down, his lips almost touching hers when they were interrupted by a strong and amused voice.

"Do I have to bail you out of jail?" Liam asked, giving his brother his trademark smirk. "I haven't missed that part much." He was holding Tink's hand and they were both grinning at them.

"You must be Liam." Emma said smiling.

"You must be Emma. It's lovely to meet you." Liam said as he grabbed Emma's hand and place a soft kiss on her knuckles before he looked at Killian again, "So, do I have to waste precious hours of my leave to go bail you out or not?"

Killian smirked at his brother before lifting his shoulders, "Nah, they haven't figured it out…"

Liam chuckled, "They are not the brightest bulb, are they?"

"Well, who would actually believe that precious golden boy curator Killian Jones, who publicly despises modern art, actually paints graffiti?" Tink said amused, and when Killian gave her an unamused glare, she stuck her tongue out at him, "Let's face it, you've built the perfect cover for your little _art-escapades_."

"And I intend to keep it that way." He said before he leaned in and lowered his voice, "I don't need to remind you all the places in London that most definitely don't need to know my true identity." He raised an eyebrow at Tink.

"Aye, aye… enough you two." Liam said, "and we should probably get out of here and leave you to it." He clasped Killian's shoulder. "This looks great, little brother. And Emma it was lovely to meet you and I hope I get a chance to see you again before I leave."

"I'd love to," Emma smiled at them.

They kept touring around the exhibition, speaking with critics, artists and curators and beaming at the compliments they received. As the night came to an end, they walked together towards the exit. Emma stop at the entrance of the room, taking one final look at the exhibition that had taken her breath away. She turned around to gaze at the dark haired curator with stormy blue eyes that had taken her breath away as well. She smiled as her arms reached to cross around his neck and pulled him closer to her, both of them swaying into one of the museum corridors.

"They were right," She said.

"About what?" He asked in a soft whisper, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You were the best thing that happened to my exhibition…"

He tilted his head, smiling softly and making the creases around his eyes stand out, "Within time, I'd like to be among the best things that happened to your life, Emma. Because you're quickly becoming one of the best things that happened to mine…" His eyes bored into hers, "This … this means _something_ to me. In a way it hasn't for years… this could very well mean everything." He finished before brushing his lips against hers.

She tilted her head, bringing him closer as her lips move with his, her hands intertwining in his hair, and the mood suddenly changed into something that was clearly not appropriate for the setting they were in.

"We need to get out of here soon, otherwise I might just drag you to my office and take you there…"He mumbled between kisses.

She broke the kiss and gave him a mockingly shocked stare, "Would you dare to risk tainting your pristine image in that way? Killian Jones, curator extraordinaire, caught with his pants down in the middle of a museum? That would ruin your chances to ever work at Orsay, you know?"

"You'd be worth it." He said before chasing her lips into another kiss.

"I wouldn't do that to you." She said, "As much as I really want you…" She added in a whisper and he groaned.

"What do you say we get out of here and I'll show you how to actually paint a graffiti?" He cocked an eyebrow at her jovially, "Let's go spray paint your studio."

She gave him an amused look, "You want to trash my studio with your _vandalism_?"

He tilted his head, his finger tapping her nose, "It's not vandalism, it's _art_ , you've said so yourself, Swan." He gave her one last kiss before he grabbed her hand, "Come on, I'll show you all my tricks." He leaned to whisper in her ear, " _And not just about graffiti_."

" _I can't wait_."


	14. Outtake

_Outtake_

He really was something. The minute Killian entered her apartment, he'd discarded his suit jacket and maneuvered to unbutton his black shirt.

"I thought we were going to spray paint?" Emma teased as she approached him and held his hand in hers, her eyes silently asking for permission to help him. He nodded, letting her undo the buttons of his shirt, and take it off him. She smirked at the _Ramones_ t-shirt he had underneath.

"Well, this is a much better look for a graffiti artist." She agreed before her lips captured his in a long kiss. He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his hand finding a home in her hair as his left arm pulled her closer to him.

She broke the kiss, her nose nuzzling his, before she pulled away and walked out on him slowly, towards her bedroom. She turned her head over her shoulder and gave him a mischievous smile. "I'll be right back. I need to get out of this dress."

"Do you need assistance, love?" He asked raising his eyebrows.

She shook her head, " _Stay here_."

Emma came back shortly, changed into ripped jeans and a loose black t-shirt. Killian had already discarded his shoes and he was standing barefoot, his eyes studying the spray cans Emma had left from her etchings. She took a second to observe him, standing there, dark hair disheveled and black clothes, his eyes attentively looking at the cans. He looked as breathtaking as he did that first day she met him in his office.

Killian sensed her presence and he turned around. His eyes focused on her and he smirked, "Oh, that's more like it…" He said with appreciation, his hand waving with flourish in the air.

"You prefer this over a short black dress?" She asked teasingly, an eyebrow raised at him.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to him, "You have no idea what a ripped jeans and a punk shirt do to me, Swan." He confessed in a low voice.

She smiled, her hands softly caressing his arms, "I have a confession to make."

"Most women do." He smirked

"They have the same effect on me." She admitted before she leaned in to kiss him again, her lips molding with his in a deep kiss.

He trailed after her when she pulled away, grabbing his shirt and dragging him towards one of the walls.

"I want to see you paint."

He smiled cockily, his hand reaching for a spray can. He held the can with his left elbow, his hand maneuvering to remove the lid, "Watch and learn, Swan."

Killian stood for a second in front of her white wall, his eyes scanning the surface. He shook the spray can and all of the sudden he was there, in the moment, his hand moving swiftly as he started to paint on her wall. Emma watched mesmerized as the spray paint on the wall started to shift into lines and shapes. The movement of this wrist as he went back and forth, flawlessly painting onto the wall. She could see the letters of her name coming to life and she smiled when _Swan_ finally came into full form in black against the white of the wall.

Killian turned around and smiled at her, "Do you like it?"

She nodded, "It's beautiful."

"Come here," He motioned her towards him and she walked in his direction. Killian handed her the can and made her face the wall. He positioned himself behind her, his chest pressed against her back as his hand closed over hers on the spray can.

"Steady pressure." He said as his finger pressed on hers and the paint came through. He gently directed her hand, swiftly tracing curve lines, "Hold your wrist in place for steady lines or flick your wrists for effect. Do each line separately, as a whole on its own." His lips were on her ear, carefully whispering the instructions.

He moved their joined hands toward the middle before pressing his finger and hers against the button again. He slowly started moving, following the trail of the can and he used his left arm pressed on her hip to guide her. "Move with the line, Swan," his stubble tickled her neck as he kept on moving and talking, his hand carefully guiding hers in a swift motions, "That is how you do it. You move your body with the line. You use your whole body, love. Back and forth." He finished in a whisper, his hips softly pressed against her from behind, his body radiating heat.

Emma inhaled deeply as she watched the stylized swan figure that now decorated her wall. She could feel his ragged breathing and it only fueled her even more. She slowly lowered their joined hands holding the spray can. He removed his hand from atop hers the moment she started to turn around. In the blink of an eye, she had dropped the can on the floor as her lips were crashing into his, her hands quickly moving to grab his shirt and pull him closer to her. He swayed them on the spot before he had her pressed against the wall, avoiding the painted areas. He trailed kisses down her neck and his hips ground against hers, the friction adding more heat to the moment. His hand moved underneath her shirt to caress her breast and she moaned at his touch. He broke his kisses for a second, his darkened eyes boring into hers.

"Bedroom?" He asked hoarsely.

"Yes" She quickly agreed and he lifted her into his arms and carried her there.

/-/

Killian woke up the next morning with Emma's head resting on his shoulder, her hand softly placed on his chest. He sighed happily, pulling her closer to him, his lips placing a soft kiss on her head.

"What time is it?" She mumbled as she stirred a little.

"I have no idea… but probably not very early." He replied, lifting her chin so he could brush his lips with hers." He pulled away to grab his phone, "I'll probably be late for my brunch with Liam."

" _Brunch_?" She asked surprised as she slipped into her shirt and a pair of shorts.

"Tink has her quirks. Brunch is one of them," Killian explained as he reached for his clothes.

"I am supposed to meet David and Mary Margaret too, but at least we can have a cup of coffee before you have to go?"

He reached out to give her a kiss, "That sounds great."

"I'll start the coffee machine."

They were having coffee, smiling at each other when someone knocked on the door, and Emma went to answer.

Regina walked in, stopping only briefly when she spotted Killian sitting on one of the stools. Her eyes moved towards the studio area and she cocked an eyebrow when she spotted the graffiti on the wall.

" _Interesting_ ," She said, "There seems to be an affliction around town where walls magically get painted with graffiti overnight."

Killian chuckled, looking at Emma, his eyebrows raising, "I think that is my cue to leave." He said as he finished his coffee and grabbed his suit jacket from the chair.

"Mr. Jones," Regina called, her eyes still trained on the painted wall, "If you ever decide to move your work from the walls and into a canvas … _call me._ "

"I'll be sure to do so." Killian replied before he leaned in to kiss Emma on the cheek, "Goodbye. I'll call you later." He whispered before leaving the apartment.

Emma watched him leave, a smile on her face, before her eyes went back to Regina who was still standing in the middle of her studio, her arms crossed in front of her chest and a slightly annoyed look on her face.

"Well?" Emma asked. "What are the reviews about the exhibition?"

"It's a success, but I guess you knew that." Regina smirked, waving her had in the air, "We have collectors interested in buying your new pieces."

Emma's heart sank in her chest at the idea of selling those pieces, "They are not for sale, I can make more for them, but those are not for sale." She said quickly.

Regina rolled her eyes slightly, "I gathered that much from whatever it was that was going on last night between you and the allegedly respectable curator that had just left this apartment wearing a punk shirt." She sighed, walking around Emma's studio, "I told the collectors that, most likely, you'd like to keep those for your own collection but that you'd be willing to create unique pieces for them-"

"You're great, Regina." Emma conceded.

"I _know_." Regina replied smugly before her eyes set on Emma with a curious look.

"Regina?" Emma asked, "What else?"

Regina sighed, before she gave Emma a serious look, "Emma, your pieces were fantastic and the critics acknowledged that. You had a breakthrough in your style and your art. _But so did Killian_. What he did can very well revolutionize the curating space. Putting graffiti to complement an art exhibition? It's not just inspiring, it's innovative. It's a leap in the profession. They will be talking about this years from now; they will be teaching about this at classes. It's only a matter of time until the most important museums in the world come knocking at his door." Regina finished, her eyes wandering towards the graffiti on the walls.

 _Orsay_. Emma thought as her eyes followed Regina.

Regina turned around, a know-it-all smirk on her face, "That's why I pushed you to accept working with him. And, _as usual_ , I was not mistaken."

Emma rolled her eyes, "I know. Go ahead, tell me I told you so." She motioned to Regina.

Regina smirked as she headed to the door, "Oh, Miss Swan, you know very well, I will be doing so. But I also expect to raise my commission from 5% to 7% once your art starts selling at a higher price. And trust me, _I will get you a higher price_."

"I have no doubt you will. Thank you, Regina."

"You're welcome, Emma." Regina said as she opened the door and left.

Emma's phone beeped with a message. She quickly grabbed it, a smile coming to her face when she read Killian's name on her screen.

 _At the risk of sounding a little too straightforward, I'm already eager to see you again. Do you want to do something tonight?_

She quickly typed her reply. _I'm not fond of the dash and dine type of thing._

It took him less than a minute to reply. _Wonderful, me neither. Pizza and movies on my place? My couch is quite comfortable._

 _I'll bring the beers._


	15. Lovestruck

A/N; this is the end of the road... only one epilogue after this. Thank you very much for everyone that stayed with me during this story

Chapter 14: Lovestruck

 _Every paper that you read  
Says tomorrow is your lucky day  
Well, here's your lucky day  
_ **The Universal, Blur**

Emma heard the door opening and quickly lifted her eyes from the book she'd been reading while snuggled on her couch. She smiled at the sight of Killian in faded ripped jeans, punk shirt and black leather jacket entering her house.

"Did you have a good time trashing the museum again?" She asked teasingly.

"Once again, Swan, it's _art_. You've said so yourself…" He replied as he ran his hand through his hair, spiking it in all directions and gave her a smug smirk.

The stunt he'd pulled as a curator by using graffiti on the walls of her exhibition had stirred up things within the museum. Critics had acclaimed the idea and a few had pointed out the interesting contrast between street art and traditional art channels. Taking advantage of the hype, Killian had ventured to pitch an idea to the Board. He wanted to curate an exhibition that would be solely street art and graffiti. He wanted to gather some street artists and give them the empty walls so they could just do their thing.

It didn't take him long to convince them it was a good idea and he set out to prepare the exhibition. He contacted a few of the local artists and a few of his old mates from the London underground scene. It came as a surprise for many of them to hear of Killian's work as a curator, but all of them jumped at the opportunity to spray paint museum walls, in addition of seeing _KJ_ coming back to the scene. Killian had been able to convince the board to let them do the entire thing at night, claiming some of the artists wanted to maintain their identities hidden. He, as a curator, would be present during the entire night to oversee the situation.

That's what he told them. _And they bought it_.

So here he was, back after hanging out with his old mates and his local mates, spray-painting the museum walls while the music blasted from the speakers and he was doing his own thing. Like he'd dreamed so many years ago. His art, right there in a museum.

Killian smiled as he looked at the reason while this night had happened.

 _Emma_.

Without her, he wouldn't be here, happy about everything in his life. So happy about actually having everything in his life: he was curating, he was painting in his free time, he was still doing graffiti. _And he was with her_. He had everything he'd wanted and thought he'd never had: his job, his passion, his… _love_.

It hit him in that moment, the realization coming to him as he looked at her smiling at him from the couch.

 _He loved her_.

His face lifted in a huge grin as he walked towards her, his eyes drinking her beauty, his heart jumping in his chest.

Emma tilted her head, noticing the change in his stance, "Is everything ok?" She asked hesitantly.

It had only been a few months, and he knew she was cautious with her heart after everything she'd gone through in her life. He could wait for her. He had all the time in the world after all.

He bent, his lips capturing hers in a soft kiss, "Thank you, Swan," He whispered, "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, love. This is the happiest I've been in almost a decade." He said daringly.

She rested her forehead against his, her heart beating frantically in her chest, "Me too." She confessed.

/-/

She found him sitting on the kitchen table in the middle of the night a few weeks later. His hair was disheveled and there was a mess of papers over the table.

He'd been working on a new exhibition, one he'd been dreaming to do since the beginning of his career and he was finally in a place where he could get it done. It was about 19th century paintings and he'd been able to get museums from all over the world to lend him the pieces to put it together.

He only noticed her when she reached his side and sat next to him.

"I – I'm almost done." He said but she knew it was a lie. His eyes were focused on the little images, his hand moving back and forth as he positioned them in the different rooms of the exhibition.

Emma looked mesmerized at his features, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration, the way his hand fidgeted on the table when it was not moving something. Her eyes traveled towards the design, marveled at the passion that lay underneath each one of the pieces, in each one of the sets. She knew all these paintings, she'd seen them in museums and books, she'd even studied some in detail. But seeing them here, under the silent strings in which he was tying them together, it was as if they were new. They all had a new meaning that came directly from the image he had conjured in his mind and was now resting on the design in front of her.

And it was breathtaking, seeing him in action, doing what he truly loved to do. What he'd dreamed of doing for years. She saw him smile as he moved a few images around and with the way his eyes were moving back and forth, a satisfied expression coming to his face; she knew he'd found a combination he was proud of.

Seeing him happy made her happy. It was like finding order in the universe again, all the pieces of a composition fitting together in the perfect way, creating an art masterpiece. Or a breathtaking exhibition. And with him, it was usually both.

That was when she realized that _they_ were the ones fitting together perfectly. That him and her, and what they had built during the months they'd been together was something of a masterpiece on its own.

 _And she never wanted it to end._

He seemed to sense her mood shift, because he turned around to look at her, "Are you alright, love?" He asked.

Her heart beat a staccato against her chest as she looked at him smiling, "I love you." She said.

His eyes widened for a brief second before he reached to caress her face, "I love you too." He professed as he kissed her.

She looked at him curiously when he pulled away, "How long have you known?" She asked.

He smirked, "For a while… I was just giving you time to catch up."

She smiled again, biting her lower lip as she tilted her head, "You spend an awful lot of time in here." She said as her hand reached for his.

He interlaced their fingers, "I do."

"I _like_ that you spend a lot of time in here…"

"Do you?" He asked softly.

She reached to kiss him, her free hand burying in his hair, "Yes."

"You know, Swan," He said as he shifted to pull her closer to him, and she went willingly, sitting almost at the edge of the stool, "the loft next to this one is available… I could – we could…" He whispered as he brushed his lips against hers.

She slowly stood up, freeing her hands to lace her arms on his neck and stepping between his legs, "Tear down a wall and make a bigger art space/curator space that fits the both of us?" She said as she pressed herself against him, kissing him, "That is all we need to be bigger, right?"

He smirked against her lips, "Aye, I'd say that the bedroom is perfect the way it is right now." He pulled his face a little, his blue eyes dancing with joy, "Do you want to live with me, Swan?" He asked.

"I do."


	16. Epilogue: Artstruck

**_This is it. This is the end... I loved writing this story and I want to thank all of you for your comments and support._**

* * *

 _One year later._

Killian stood in front of the unfinished canvas, tilting his head and studying the lines of the composition. His thumb traced one of the strokes carefully, feeling the rough texture of the oil painting.

"If you keep focusing on that, we're going to be late."

He turned around and found Emma standing on the other side of his art space, her golden hair cascading in loose waves, her hands cradling a mug.

"It's not a big deal, Swan. We can be late," he shrugged.

"No big deal!?" She asked incredulous. "It's your first exhibition, Killian!" She all but beamed at him, pride in her eyes as she looked at him.

"It's just a few paintings in a small gallery," He contested, his gaze lowering to the floor as he deflected some of the attention. "It's not even a solo exhibition."

He saw her feet coming to stand next to his on the floor and her hands came to cradle his face, the warmth from the mug transferring into his cheeks and she made him face her.

"Hey, it's ok to be nervous." She smiled at him. "I was a wreck the first time my pieces were shown. But they are _good_. _You_ are good. Even Regina has said do."

He captured her lips with his in a soft kiss, his eyes closed as he let himself be swallowed by her comfort, her support. Her _love_.

"Thank you." He whispered against her lips, his thumb tracing patters on the skin above her hipbone, his eyes looking at her as the calm after a storm in the sea.

"You're welcome." She bit her lower lip and pulled away, going back to her mug and shuffling through the prints that were on her desk by her art studio. She had a new exhibition coming through and she'd been obsessively going over the proposal sent by the curator.

Killian took a moment to observe her, the natural light on their space casting the copper tons in her blonde hair in a different light, her graceful movements making him want to capture the moment by any means possible. He turned around, his eyes scanning their joint art space. Most of the walls were now filled with graffiti, the ones they painted the night of her first exhibition had been complemented with different lines and drawings of canvases and frames that decorated his space. Her presses had been moved to the side after he bought the second loft and turned down the walls and they now occupied a central place on her side of the space. And at the very end, between wooden bookshelves and his old desk, his curator study was being guarded by her first etched graffiti pieces, the ones that brought them together in the first place.

Emma's stance shifted, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"Are you alright, love?" Killian asked.

"I'm just not sure about this one…" She trailed off. Killian closed the distance, his arms enveloping her as he stood behind her, resting his chin on shoulder.

"This." Emma pointed out to a set of drawings. "Do you think it's a good combination? Would you have done it?"

"Swan," He said in a half-chastising tone. "We've been through this. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to step in and meddle into another curator's design."

"But it's the _Rembrandt House_." Emma said, and he knew how much it meant to her to have her work showcased in her favorite museum. "This is big. I trust your judgement."

"And this is their curator. They trust his…. He's _good_."

"Not as good as you," She said coyly as she turned around and gave him a flirty smile.

He smirked. "You flatter me, love. But you have to work with him. Just, you know… don't _fall_ for him"

"As if." She scoffed and he crushed his lips against hers, his stump pulling her closer to him by the waist.

She noticed his eyes roaming over the prints when he broke the kiss, a longing look on his face. There was something in there, she could feel it in the way his fingers itched over her skin and the way his eyes were lost in something.

"Killian?" She asked. Killian's eyes met hers, a soft smile coming to his lips.

" _Orsay_ called," He whispered softly, his eyes lighting with excitement. "They want to meet with me."

"Killian!" Emma all but threw herself back into his arms, hugging him tightly. His arms captured her as he buried his face on the crook of her neck and breathed her in.

"Do you think they'll offer you a job there?"

"It was hinted, yes. They did clarify that I'd not be allowed to use graffiti on their walls, though." His voice was muffled but when finally lifted his head and looked at her, she was beaming at him. His hand moved to caress her cheek, his thumb tracing a pattern on the apple of the cheek.

"If I get this, if they offer me a job – would you…" he trailed off, his voice faltering a little as his body tensed. "Would you consider coming with me?"

Emma tilted her head, finally understanding his somewhat odd behavior of the day. She smiled at him, her hand moving on top of his. "Yes," She confirmed.

He smiled, his head tilting as he bent to kiss her again, his lips tracing a pattern down her jaw. "There's one more thing, love." He whispered as he pulled away.

"There's more?" She asked surprised.

"Give me a second, I'll be right back." He gave her a quick kiss as he pulled away and strode to their room.

Emma wandered around her space, her fingers tracing the lines of his graffiti on the walls as she waited for him. That is how Killian found her when he came back to the room and he took a minute to admire her again.

She looked at him and smiled, and he found the courage he needed. "I – I am in this for the long haul, Swan. Whether it's here or Paris… I want to be with you… I want to be yours."

He pulled her into his arms, his eyes boring into hers. "I – I had plan something different. I was going to ask you to come to Paris for the interview and orchestrate a big romantic gesture at the Louvre right by the _The Winged Victory of Samothrace_ , the natural light casting a halo on your hair, showing you as the depiction of true beauty." He felt her breath catch in her throat, her green eyes widening in awe and he gave her a soft smile. "But here, like this, in jeans and a punk shirt, here's where I kissed you for the first time. This is where I realized you saw every part of me. Even without knowing it, you had seen all of me. And this is where I saw all of you… this is where I fell in love with you, Emma." His hand reached to his back pocket, pulling the simple engraved ring that he had custom made with one of his swan drawings. "It's only befitting that this would be the place where I ask if you'd marry me."

"Killian," she whispered softly, a small smile coming to the corner of her lips as he showed her the ring.

"Will you, Swan? Marry me?"

"Yes, I will." She said as she leaned in to kiss him.


End file.
